


Paint It Black

by AnonymousScriptor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, BAMF John, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Original Character(s), Original Universe, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Mycroft, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 19:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 78,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4533726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousScriptor/pseuds/AnonymousScriptor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Color is a privilege I have not the honor to see. It's nothing personal. It affects everyone. Still, seeing the color of the sky or the fall of the leaves would be more enlightening if I could see the reds or blues. But, I can't change what I was born with. I need my soul mate for that and I don't know anyone who would want a boring doctor as I. John/Sherlock</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Monochrome

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is originally posted on my account on Fanfiction.net. I decided to post it here since I've been having issues getting on the site. Let's see how this goes.   
> I don't own Sherlock obviously.

_Black and white._

_White and black._

_Gray and black and white._

These are the colors that have adorned my vision since I was born. Everything I see is like peering into old classics on the telly. People moving with the most flamboyant movements and speaking in odd tongues. Nothing is taken away from seeing only three colors. It's the same as everything else, just lacking the one objective that could make it stand out from the rest.

_Color._

Sitting at my office desk, I picked up a pencil and sketched on a notepad close to me. I'm far from an artist, but I enjoy the craft as a time waster. My paperwork is finished, my next patient isn't till noon, and I have no other way to pass the time, having forgotten my favorite detective novel at home.

After a moment of idle coloring, I peered at the sheet of paper. The spark of hope in the back of my head appearing despite the absurdity.

It was useless for that spark to have occurred. I hadn't met anybody in the last few seconds.

I stilled the pencil.

Even though the colored pencil in my hand is labeled "Blue" all I see is black or a dark gray. The sphere I color on my paper is perfect in the sense of shading and proportions, but it can't get any better without color. An aspect I have long given up looking for because I apparently wasn't meant to have it with however many dates I go on.

Setting the pencil aside, I sighed. My hand goes to the bridge of my nose and I stuffed the pad in my drawers.

But, I can't say that I am the only one with this. Because I'm not. Everyone is born with this specific disease the second they leave the womb of their parents. Color is left out of the picture and replaced with the lifeless neutrals of shading and light. It's like reverting back to the past because we have advanced so much in the future. Both I find rather unbelievable, but that is the belief system nowadays.

I vaguely remembered all the times on the telly I would catch kids yelling at their parents and blaming them for the fact they can't see color. The parents couldn't do anything but watch in a tearful expression for they had nothing they could say to console the hormonal teenager.

It's not the parent's fault. It never is their fault. If anything, pity is placed on them for bearing children. As odd as it sounds, having children is almost a curse for them. They lack the connection they know they can't have with their children. The one facet that everyone has in common except for the lucky few.

The spectrum of light coursing through everyday life.

_Color._

God. That word. I suppose before the whole disease people would love the word like it was some euphoric drug. But that was in the past. Nowadays, mentioning this word in public or in a pub could get you a solid left hook, a black eye, and a few disgusted looks. Even if you couldn't see it. Even if it was just idle conversation. It was a touchy subject.

So is mentioning people you know who have found color. It seems that while everybody may be congratulating you, they have that underline emotion of hatred and resentment.

But that's how it is today, as immature and annoying as it can be.

The parents, the soul mates as we call it, have color. It's because with their soul mate, the one and only person they will be with, their lives are complete. They can see the world for what it is, but it's fine as long as their mate is beside them. It's only then that the disease is lifted and you are able to see color.

Or so I've heard. I can't say the same because I haven't found mine yet and have stopped looking.

In this colorless world, we call these people the Iridescence. They are not restricted to hierarchy and nor are they immediately moved when they do change the status. They are just lucky, ordinary people. You can tell when you're around one when you see them. They have a white aura outlining their entire being. It branches off in wispy arms but touches no one. It's like they are glowing.

The rest of us, the colorless, are known as the Monochromes. Most of the population consists of Monochromes. It's because soul mates are hard to find. The closest hint you get is a tug in the right direction. A little spark saying that you might want to look around you. But it could be gone in an instant.

I sighed, briefly remembering times I always felt that tug. It was so faint and I hated it because it always pointed me to the nearest crime scene. It was like it was mocking me. Telling me it would be better to just do the same as that bloke on the street.

Some find theirs, though. I don't know how. They can never explain what it felt like when they found their mate. A mystery.

Well, I suppose that's very unrelated to me at the moment.

Once your mate is found, the white and black don't change immediately. It's gradual, depending on how deep your bond is. If it's friendship. If it's love. If it's anything. Depending on the strength of the bond, you will get whatever color is dictated by that amount of strength.

That's why some of us are fortunate to get all colors when we do find our mates. The Iridescence is a status most don't obtain. It has sub-levels for those who obtain most of the color (Opalescence) and those who have very little (Pastels). Although, that being said, nobody can have a child unless they are with their soul mate and of full Iridescence value. That's the interesting perks of the disease really.

I don't know of these and I personally could care less. I don't waste time pitying the fact that I work in an occupation where I see soul mates having their children. Where children are taken from the wound and snipped from their mother's. Where the tears that cascade down their faces are not of joy, but of sorrow for the child they know will never understand why they love the sunset and why they enjoy the Fall.

But that's why I don't work in that category. I'm a doctor, was once an Army doctor, but I restrained myself to avoiding that branch. The branch of the children and laboring women. It was a sad sight to see and I've met some of the blokes and mates that work in the Sanctuary Zone (where the births are to be held). They are always sad. Smiles appear, but they never reach their eyes. I don't want that to happen to me.

I restrain myself to do mostly minor check ups and, in cases of low staff, ER work. I've been told I work great under pressure. I don't crack and mess up. Most of the doctors in the vicinity value this greatly. To the point that they almost tried to promote me to being a trauma surgeon or a surgeon to work full time in the ER. I declined because it was right next to the Sanctuary Zone. I valued what I had left of my monochrome life compared to what I would lose when I hear the cries and soft regrets.

I treasured what I have without searching for the one to give me more.

I'm _happy._

I'm happy in my own little, colorless world where all I see is black, white, and gray.

"Doctor Watson." I peered up when I heard my name. I noticed the female immediately as one of my good colleagues in this job. Sarah, I believe. She was nice. The first time we met she tapped my hand to see if I was the one, but it wasn't in the stars it seems. Too bad. She was a lovely woman and a even brilliant friend.

I shook my head to clear my thoughts and tried to work an answer through my head. Even my voice in my head was thick with the exhaustion I didn't know I was feeling. That was probably my fault. Workaholic as they say. Since it's either working or going home to my drunk sister and her mate, I'd rather stay here. Even if I work twenty-four hours straight with no break and only coffee to keep me going. It was fine. I would be doing more good here than at home.

"John."

I blinked and gave an apologetic smile, "Sorry. Kind of zoned out."

She shook her head, leaning in the entrance way with concern laced throughout her facial features, "You should go home. Rest. Eat something. No, I don't mean take-out. I mean an actual meal. Sleep in. Working these long shifts are going to drive you mad."

 _Not as mad as seeing my sister and her mate arguing despite their guaranteed happiness_ I thought to myself as Sarah continued to give me _that_ look.

Quirking my lip, I smile a little more, "Is that doctor's orders, Sarah? Can I have a note with that to keep my sister and mate away while I'm at it?"

Sarah sighed, "You should be happy for your sister, John. Not many find their soul mates. Even though your sister's relationship may be more... verbal than most, you should be glad."

With a single release of breath, I felt my age getting to me, "I know. I know Sarah. But I don't want to go to the flat and find that perhaps Clara left because Harry said something or Harry went to the pub and Clara is crying. I don't want to be the third wheel to see it all. It's enough to drive any military man mad. I can feel it." God only knows how many times I have witnessed that this week alone.

"Yeah, I know," she spoke before walking towards the desk and laying a clip board on the desk and walking out of the room. I was about to peer at the records when a nurse ran into the room, out of breath and barely catching the door before it slammed on his face.

"Doctor Watson. You're needed in the Emergency Room."

I was gone within a moment, any thoughts of my sister's failing mating out of the window.

Yeah, I was happy.

I was _happy_ in my own little sad, crazy, fatal, monochrome world where all I can see is black, white, and gray.


	2. Muted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What's so funny?"
> 
> "Nothing," I shook my head, "I just find it amusing how you must be in your late twenties and your brother is still doting on you like a mother hen."
> 
> For once, that scowl on the man's face tilted into a smile. I seemed to have amused him. That's good. Scowling didn't fit well with him. Nor did any of the insults he seemed to be accustomed to giving, but that was another topic altogether.

Before I enter the room, I slip on latex gloves and a mask. I hate the damn things, but it was all worth it to help a patient.

"What's the causes?" I muttered, cursing myself for my lack of vocabulary at the moment. Perhaps it was the conversation I had with Sarah. I didn't think it affected me at all. Not nearly this much.

Whatever the case may be, I hope the young man got what I meant to say. Maybe I should go home and sleep after this procedure. This wasn't acceptable. I should always be at my top health when it concerns the life and death of a person under my hands. I don't want a patient to lose a drop of blood because I could have prevented it by eating more.

That's not how a doctor acts and that is not how I act.

The young man beside me looked at me briefly before looking straight ahead. When he spoke his voice was crystal clear and to the point.

"Bullet wound in the lower abdominal area, several cuts varying in deep to shallow along his chest and arms, and he seems to have a cracked bone in the ulna along his right arm. Multiple bruises across the cranium and abdominal areas as well." This kid deserves a raise for all the information he told me without messing up or changing expressions. It made me happy to know he was going to be my aide throughout this ordeal which was no doubt a little domestic in an alley.

Isn't that why most people came to the hospital now? It wasn't for the flu or even a broken arm from falling out of a tree. Now, it was drug smuggling or rape in a dark alley somewhere in the grime zones of the city.

But that doesn't pertain to me. I am a doctor and I have no right to judge a patient no matter what background caused their injuries. The soldier in me would beg to differ, however.

Opening the door, I half expected to see a man unconscious and breathing slowly. It was the usual procedure for the patients who come through this branch. They were to be placed on medication for the pain and in the best position possible for the doctor performing the surgery and for the patient leaving their lives in the doctor's hands.

That is what I expected.

Instead, I am met with curious and slightly annoyed eyes. A frown pulled the corner of the man's lips down though I couldn't decipher if it was of thought of frustration. Walking closer, I kept eye contact with the supposedly injured man. I couldn't see the color (when I say color I meant the shade of black or gray) correctly with the amount of lighting this room permitted, but he appeared to be fully awake judging by his pupils and alert stance.

I've been in the military long enough to see that.

My first guess was that my aide might have forgotten to turn the gas on for him to fall asleep, but the young man shook his head at me quickly. He seemed to have read my mind ahead of me.

"I tried to administer the procedures, but he wants to remain awake. He said something along the lines of not trusting his life with doctors who don't know what they're doing." He grimaces at the phrase and I could tell the young man didn't like this patient at all. Nonetheless, since he was in the health profession, he would have to remain with tact and act unaffected to these remarks. So far he was doing a good job.

I nodded and continued to make my way to the gurney. Those eyes followed me and I tried not to look at them now that I knew the reason for his surprising alertness. It was a little odd having somebody watching me stitch and take out a bullet, but it wouldn't be the first time. I was an army doctor. This was nothing compared to what I have seen there.

I tapped a few buttons on the side of the technological gurney and it changed to a wider angle that gave me a better view of the wound. Well, wounds I mean.

Those watching eyes never faltered.

"Scalpel," I ordered and the young man placed the instrument in my hands as he cleaned up the wounds for me to stitch later. He was always moving, always getting something done which is what I would be doing if I was in his shoes.

But that wasn't the point. No, right now I needed to continue the examination and not concentrate too much on watching the aide for any mess ups. I could do that later; after I got the most offending injury dealt with: the bullet.

Considering the slash marks, it appeared the patient had a dispute with perhaps a male addict antsy until his next hit. The anxious man cornered the patient and then slashed at him when he refused to offer his money no doubt. After getting up from the slashes that were probably meant to make him stay down, the offender panicked and shot him.

 _'Then he ran like all the others'_ I added bitterly. The man's eyes slitted and I instantly remembered I was being watched. It was like being evaluated all over again.

Concentrate. Keep your biases to yourself.

Lack of blood on his person. The bullet has clogged the blood flow, which was luck on his part. If he fell any other way, he might have died from the blood loss. He was fortunate it didn't hit his lungs or stomach. That would be even nastier than a simple misfire. In fact, he probably wouldn't even be alive now let alone glaring at me.

Narrowing my eyes, I used my fingers to pull the skin around the bullet wound gently, fully aware of the gaze following my hands. Surprisingly, the man didn't even flinch from the pain he should have felt.

"I gave him a shot of morphine to keep the pain to a minimal since he wouldn't use the anesthetic," The young man added immediately when I glanced at him questioningly. I nodded to show my approval and continued my way into locating the bullet.

It wasn't hard to find. It wasn't even difficult to dislodge from its location. Nine millimeter. Typical gun. A grim smile crosses my features as I ordered the kid next to me for the forceps. He handed them to me quickly and I pulled out the bullet, dropping it in a tray beside the other tools. While the assistant went to cleaning the bloodied tools, I quickly reduced the bleeding of the wound with a few expert sutures before removing my own reddened hands.

I held my palm out and the aide gave me the tools used for stitching the wound effectively. Sutures would last until the wound heals, but I would have to stitch it otherwise the exterior wound will be able to contract infection. I didn't blame this man for wanting to remain awake. I don't know many people who could actually stitch an actual suture together. The ones that could can easily be placed on one hand.

The needle went in quickly with the suturing keeping the lips of the injury together. I stitched it so it is firmly interlocked but not uncomfortably so. I should know this I have been on that end multiple times and it is awful and irritating. I'm not going to do that to this man who still hasn't moved his gaze from my hands.

Snipping the thread, I backed away for a moment before tackling the next issue. There were the deep cuts along the chest, upper abdominal to be exact, and the arms. They just needed to be stitched up and maybe attached with gauze. The cracked bone would need some plaster perhaps.

The bleeding. I should stop that first. The bone didn't break through the skin, nor is it even broken. He is in no danger for the moment because of the arm.

Cleaning up the few blood drops that protruded from the wound, I stopped my hands when I was finally met with the flinch I was waiting for. Looking at the man, he had his eyes narrowed in pain and I could tell he was taking deep breaths and letting them out choppily. The morphine had burned off. If he wasn't placed on another dose, he might cause some sort of shock to occur on top of the blood leaving through the cuts quicker than before.

I nodded to the aide and he grabbed a syringe. A second later, the syringe was placed on the tray.

"He doesn't want anymore. He says he's fine. Feeling no pain was weird." The aide seemed a little perplexed over that comment but I just found it different.

I laughed at that and shook my head before fixing my composure.

Alright then. I guess I'll continue what I was doing then. I can't deny the patient what he prefers.

Cleaning the wounds without another interruption, they were quickly stitched and covered in gauze leaving the cracked bone probably the easiest out of all of this.

Using the plaster, I took his right arm into my hand and gingerly applied pressure to the upper and lower ulna. He flinched after the smallest amount on the upper. Nodding, I used the plaster and effectively solved the injury. It was a simple sprain. It would probably be mended within the next week.

Backing away from the patient, I slipped off my gloves and grabbed a few dry towels.

"Go tell the infirmary ward that he will be there soon." I motioned for the door and the aide was out within the next second. I proceeded to organize the tools and clean them while waiting for the verdict. Since I was the doctor for his injuries, I would have to be the one to present them to him.

Using the dry towels, I picked up each tool and carried them to the small sink. I was careful not to leave any traces of bodily fluids on the sink or the handle. Who knows what this man may have.

Slowly, the midnight black substance on the metal was washed off leaving it in it's metal shine. I have been told that blood is actually this color called crimson, but I don't know what that looks like. Don't know why I was given the name because now I want to see it. I want to give the color a name.

Too much hopes. I really should stop this nonsense.

It was similar to the feeling of putting a small coin in a jar for hopes of being rich in the future. Improbable.

I felt something pull the long sleeve under my scrubs and I peered up to see the man looking at me with... interest?

"Yes?" I asked with the usual doctor voice. The man rolled his eyes like he wanted me to drop it. He also looked pointedly at the mask covering his mouth for the oxygen.

Right, he couldn't really speak to me with the oxygen mask over his face, now could he?

I judged morals with curiosity and sighed before pulling down the mask.

"I don't think you are supposed to do that after a situation such as this," he mused and I was taken back by how baritone his voice was. It was like melted chocolate, but definitely not in the way that was appealing. Oh no. Definitely not.

Putting the last of my tools aside, I shook my head, "No. But I would assume you are out of the woods. In a few minutes, my aide will return and you will be taken to the infirmary ward."

"I know, I know," he sighed before looking at me with annoyance, "I was here when you said it the first time. I'm injured, captain, not deaf."

I stiffened at the use of my military rank. How did he?

"How did you..."

He waved his hand, dismissing it entirely, "Another time. I'm sure brother dearest is more than likely making arrangements so I am in my own private room. He always does like getting in my business when it is obvious he is unwanted." He continued muttering things about his brother but I couldn't hear anything besides "Fatcroft" or "Meddler".

A smile appeared as I laughed a little at the annoyed man who clearly had a brother with a severe brother complex.

The mutters ceased as the man looked at me with confusion.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing," I shook my head, "I just find it amusing how you must be in your late twenties and your brother is still doting on you like a mother hen."

For once, that scowl on the man's face tilted into a smile. I seemed to have amused him. That's good. Scowling didn't fit well with him. Nor did any of the insults he seemed to be accustomed to giving, but that was another topic altogether.

"I assure you, it is as pathetic as it sounds," the man sighed. "But he still finds the need to control my life despite the fact he is clearly unneeded and unwanted. I doubt he will ever get the hint."

I grinned and thought of Harry before kicking the thought out. No, I really don't want to be thinking of her. That was not the same thing as this.

"You will meet him soon no doubt."

I looked up, "Hm? Who?"

He rolled his eyes, "My brother. He will come in and attempt to intimidate you with his brolly and judgmental expression. Just ignore it. It's all for show. Actually, can you do me a favor and perhaps not give in to him entirely? Seeing him flustered would be the best thing." He chuckled lowly and I found myself observing his laughing face. It was depleted of any lines his face had when he frowned or looked annoyed.

"Will do, although I don't see why he would come to me. I'm just one doctor in this place." I shrugged.

"Confidentiality."

"I already do that. It's part of being in the health care," I reminded but the man shook his head, his dark hair bobbing at the movement.

"No. He will want this absolutely silent. He abuses his power really. He's probably in the process of hiding the entire scene so nobody will know," he muttered. He had that look of annoyance on his face. It was humorous really. His brother was trying to help him, or protect himself, and he just wanted to be left alone to his own devices. God, it reminded me of Harry and I. Too much.

Before she found her mate and saw color, well, as much as a _Pastel_ could see.

Again, I need to refrain from thinking of her. There's nothing I can do to strengthen their bond.

Instead, perhaps I should be preparing myself for this apparently stoic man.

"Why would your brother hide the scene?" I asked curiously.

At this question, the man beside me looked away for a moment. "None of your concern."

Oh _really?_ I glanced at him briefly and then considered the thoughts I fancied earlier. Drug abuser... event gone wrong... oh this fit all too well. "Don't tell me."

He glared at me.

"You? Really? You don't seem the type to get into that lot of garbage."

"Oh sod off, will you?" he groaned. "You're like Mycroft. It was recreational."

"And that recreational garbage happened to land you in this hospital. Congratulations on all the scars on you and a bullet. Seriously, it's not good for you to do that, but if you are aiming to be placed into a grave you are doing a wonderful job," I rolled my eyes and his expression only looked more agitated. God this man was easy to tease or easy to offend. Both maybe.

"So how did it go? Were you there to get a kick and then leave but tried to worm your way out of paying?" I leaned against the wall as he sighed.

"For your information, no. It was not for those reasons. That's all I'm saying for right now." The gaze that was previously fixed on me looked away. Everything changed from interest and peace to a little tense and confusion. The patient never changed from his pose, staring at everything else but myself.

I wanted to laugh. He was acting like a child. A little child who had the tables of persuasion pushed to face him. Since things weren't going his way, he was going to avoid me. Fine. Two can play that game. I happen to be the best when Harry and I would have a dispute. I can definitely make him budge a little.

Before I could initiate a conversation, the aide returned and walked over to me. His face was pale. I think the pouting man on the gurney might have been right.

"Um... we are to not take him to the infirmary ward. They want him in room 221." A private room. Score two.

"And let me guess, the man who probably told you this is probably in my office right now wanting to talk to me?" I rose my brow for emphasis, a grin threatening to form. This was interesting. _Today_ was interesting. I wanted to see how far it would go.

The young man hesitated, shocked it seemed, before nodding and I sighed. Wonderful.

Patting his head, I walked over to the man on the gurney and patted his hand, "See you later I suppose. Try not to irritate the nurses, mate. They are not nearly as patient as I am."

On the way out, I ignored the little tug in my head pointing me to go back to where I came. I ignored the small, minuscule spark that happened the second I touched that man's hand. I ignored all this because surely life wasn't getting easier for my sake. Surely my mate isn't around.

Besides, I don't know anyone who would be the perfect match for me.

Not that I care.

_I don't really want a soul mate. Not now. Not ever._


	3. Restrained

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second I walked into the office, I was met with the exact image that man made for me. The only difference was that he wasn't as obese as I thought he would be.
> 
> He was standing beside my desk in that mood the man said he would be in. His nose was tilted up and he was looking down at me. His black brolly was beside him as he leaned on it. He was attempting to make me succumb to him.
> 
> Sorry, mate. I was a captain in the bloody army. I don't think you are worse than those in that profession.

The second I walked into the office, I was met with the exact image that man made for me. The only difference was that he wasn't as obese as I thought he would be.

He was standing beside my desk in that mood the man said he would be in. His nose was tilted up and he was looking down at me. His black brolly was beside him as he leaned on it. He was attempting to make me succumb to him.

Sorry, mate. I was a captain in the bloody army. I don't think you are worse than those in that profession.

I observed him for a moment, taking his figure in. He wasn't obese at all. He was actually within a healthy weight from what I can see. His suit was tailored from the looks of it. His hair was styled and eyes pierced mine with a light grey colour. His face was a little unappetizing with the scrutiny written all over it like it was a book.

Seconds passed and his pose didn't change at all. He still remained as posh and agitating as he looked the minute I opened this door.

The exact image as his brother gave me.

The first name that came to mind? A pain in the arse. Or prick. Or something I would probably hate if I hadn't been briefed that he had a severe brother complex.

"Hello," I greeted, shutting the door behind me. I continued to stand at the door, not wanting to get close to the man. His stiff air was almost constricting. It almost seemed like if I were to get closer to him I wouldn't be able to breathe. I almost pitied the injured man for having this man as his brother. Harry was never as protective as this git.

Then again, she wasn't the exact version of an ideal sister, not that I am complaining I suppose.

"Hello, Doctor Watson." He nodded in my direction and motioned for me to sit at my desk. Great.

Not wanting to be rude, I sat in my chair. It was cold and stiff, like the man in front of me. The man in question then proceeds to move until he was in front of my desk. His hands never touched my little items on my desk, fingers remaining stalled on the handle of his brolly. He was much taller than me now that I was sitting down. Ah, the intimidation trick his brother warned me of. Right. Ignore it. Give him hell. Can do.

The soldier in me already was willing to comply with this request. Bad habits die hard, right?

"You don't have to try that trick on me. I have already spoken to your brother," I almost smirked as his eyes widened ever so slightly before regaining their composure.

"And you seem to have spoken to him without my consent. That's not very wise of you," he spoke slowly. My reaction didn't change though the atmosphere certainly did. It seemed to have dropped 10 degrees. Why didn't he just drop it? I just caught him and he is still trying to use it on me. Really. Now he was just being a prick.

Of course, I already got that image to begin with.

"He's old enough to make his own decisions," I countered. "You just don't seem to get that, do you? He is no longer in need of any adult supervision. In fact, when I spoke to him he seemed increasingly annoyed of you getting into all of this. Maybe you should take the hint."

After saying this, I cursed at my quick tongue. Not wise, Watson. You are a doctor. You are not even this patient's _friend_. You have no right to tell his brother how to be one. I must say, however, I didn't regret it long.

The opulent man's was priceless. Absolutely priceless. The patient was once again correct about his brother's reaction. His face flushed up though I couldn't compare it to a color like the Iridescence can. They often say one flushes up like a strawberry, but I don't see anything similar. I guess the hue can be similar or the color scheme. To me, all that appeared was a darker shade of gray that doused his cheeks to his ears and down his collar.

I would have laughed if I wasn't in my office where anybody could squeal at my very obvious misconduct in the display of dismay for the man that stood like he had the world in his hands to control.

God, I hated control freaks.

Within a minute, the color went back to it's normal scheme and the atmosphere seemed to waver. The man pursed his lips, "I'm sure you know why my brother was injured so?"

I rolled my eyes, "Of course. It doesn't take a genius to figure it out Mr...?"

"Holmes. Mycroft Holmes," he responded before narrowing his eyes in what must be an amused expression, "I'd thought you would have gotten the name from Sherlock by this point."

Ah, okay. So the name of the immature adult in the ER room was Sherlock Holmes. Got it. It was nice to finally apply a name to the face in room 221.

"I don't like to get in somebody's business, Mr. Holmes," I shrugged but my voice was stern like a doctor protecting one's confidentiality. In a way, I kind of was I suppose.

"And yet here you are getting into his and my business by telling me to retreat," he smirked as I couldn't think of what to say. He had me there. I had it coming.

Rubbing my face with exhaustion, I peered over my hand at the smug man, "Fine. Touche. What are you doing here Mr. Holmes?" This man was beginning to wear on me. Not in intimidation, but in his attitude. It was rather annoying and childish. Like a rich kid who didn't know what to do with himself so he made the lives others miserable with meddling in their business.

And now he was in mine.

Because I was in his brother's.

I wanted to groan at my luck.

"I just want you to keep everything that is of my brother completely invisible. Away. Burned. I really don't care how you do it. Just do it." There was that intimidating look again.

"And if I don't?" I didn't like him. I didn't like the fact that he was testing me like a child. I hated being thought below others. And this prat is the definition of all that I disliked in all those people. So, naturally, I mindlessly replied in rebellion. I have the army to blame for that. It should have beat it out of me, but it only made it worse.

Mycroft neared me. The look changed from minor intimidation to serious in an instant and I found myself tapping my leg in the slightest amount of nervous anxiety. I didn't show it in my face. I met his glare with one of my own. Probably not as strong, but definitely as fixated. I would show him. Not for his child of a brother, but because I really didn't like him and I wanted to prove he couldn't knock me aside like any other Monochrome in this building.

I'm pretty sure now that I think of it that it's my inner army captain speaking. I never was one for taking orders. Well, I suppose now it's coming back to bite me in the arse.

"Did Sherlock ever tell you what kind of power I hold, Doctor Watson?" he spoke with the undertones of power. It was like his voice vibrated to emphasize how much trouble I would be in if I responded incorrectly.

"No, he didn't. He just told me you enjoyed controlling him," I responded briskly. I could feel the hairs along my arms begin to stand on edge.

Mycroft sighed, "He is really full of dramatics, isn't he? No. I'm not some control freak. I'm sure if you were to mention me again to him, he would call me the government."

"Now look who's the dramatic one," I muttered and he paused to glare at me before continuing. I just wanted to laugh, but decided it would break this lovely tense atmosphere. It felt like one of those detective movies. All it was missing was the hanging lamp and completely blacked out room.

"As I was saying," he glared at me again as to make a point. I rose my brow in his direction which probably didn't help my situation, "I am the government. Not just figuratively, but literally. I fail to see the point in explaining such liberal thoughts to you so ask my brother at some point since you both appear to be... pals." He spoke the last word with such distaste that I assumed he didn't have any.

Poor bloke. Everyone deserves a friend. Now, I'm not going to try and be his friend, but somebody should. I wondered for a second if he had found his mate yet. Or, on that rare occasion, if he was one of those who didn't have mates. The Sombres.

Leaning back away from the pitiful man, I let out a slow breath, "I get it, Mr. Holmes. No need to pull off all the stops. I assume that if I mention this to a bloke over lunch you will some how make me non-existent?"

He glared at me and I nodded," Alright. Got it. No need to worry about me, Mr. Holmes. I'm just a simple doctor. Might I also add that I would never risk the confidentiality of patients. I am not permitted to do so so I would never perform such acts of slander. Please understand." I smiled and watched him stiffen before scuttling out of the room.

The black, white, and gray room.

I thought of Sherlock and grinned. Well, I gave him hell. As much hell as I could give without him sending me off to another country or whatever. I could see why he didn't like him too much.

Though, he's probably just being the usual sibling. Rather overprotective if you ask me, but still a sibling. Maybe he's making up for avoiding Sherlock in the past. Maybe he never acted as Sherlock's brother. That is entirely possible, but it isn't my area to judge. I really don't know and I would rather not get into the business of the ever elusive Holmes family. God. It sounds like one big drama.

I felt my mind begin to wander and let out a sigh.

My mind wandered back to the Sombres.

Perhaps the bloke was so angry because he hasn't found his mate. I know a few like that. Don't stray too long because then they get too touchy-feely with the alcohol and all. Perhaps Mycroft is a Sombre? That could make sense I suppose. Maybe.

Sombres are people who might not have a mate. They are rare and no test has ever been done in the science field as to why they exist, but it does occur sometimes. Those people are the hardest to be around. Sombres are one of the most difficult people to talk to or become friends with. They stick to family and only that. They rarely communicate with others and try to make them avoid their being entirely. It's a sad little sub-division in the Monochrome society.

Or, and this is highly doubtful, maybe he is a Discoloured? I don't think he has found his mate so it is unlikely, but you can never tell with people like him.

That's another sub-division in the Monochrome society. Discolours are men and women who had a mate but the said mate died. It can be natural or unnatural. It doesn't matter. This people are like the Sombres, but not quite as unsocial. They are just really... sad people. I could understand why.

When you're a discoloured individual, your color doesn't stay. Instead, the color slowly drains. Gradually, your vision fades back to the Monochrome ways. Black, white, and gray. Most can't cope with it. That's another reason why I avoid the branch where the Sanctuary Zone is located. Right next to it is the Coping Zone. That's where the Discoloured that can't face their fate go to.

It's not the same as insanity. They don't go crazy and attack people. Instead, they go through the common phases that most people in denial or depression fall under. Avoiding people. Rarely eating. Constantly crying but making no sound. It's very depressing and the staff that work there have to make up for that lacking emotion by smiling for them. Also, those said staff can never under any circumstance be of Iridescence, Pastel, or Opalescence. It only makes their situation worse.

Yet another zone I try to avoid. I suppose it's that entire area to be honest. I do it in a way fellow mates won't know of my irregular avoidance of the zones.

Looking at the clip board on my desk, I flipped the papers a few times to peer at all the information for my next patient in the Clinical Zone. Behind him were several others who would come right after he and so on.

It was going to be a long day before I have my chat with Sherlock Holmes. I would have my chat with him.

After all, I still didn't know how he knew I was a captain. He was interesting and different from the usual.

I definitely wasn't going to see him because of the spark. _That was not the reason._ Because I didn't deserve a mate at all. Not with my past and certainly not with my future.

But friends would be okay I suppose.


	4. Dappled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Wait, how did you know that?" I stopped him and he eyed me with amusement.
> 
> "Oh? The military stature you uphold? Simple. If you want more, I can tell that you are a Monochrome, have an older sibling – brother no doubt –, has a little hobby in art, no relationships because you gave up on them. Do you want more?"
> 
> I sat there stunned. Shaking my head, I felt the grin fall on my face, "Yes. Can you tell me how you did that?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to add the same thing I said when I first posted this on FF.net. These first 6 chapters are more so informational on the AU with some plot mixed in. It speeds up more after these I promise.

Leaning against my desk chair, I sighed. Today was just as predicted. A very long day full of patients and the usual topics of conversation. It wasn't the patients fault. It never was the patients fault. It was just the fact that I have been ignoring sleeping and eating for the past two days and it is beginning to catch up with me. Severely. I could feel my eyelids threatening to fall as I stared at these notes to write down prescriptions and the like.

My vision blurred a little as my eyelids fluttered and I brought my hand up to rub the sleep away. I just have to put my signature and I'm done with this patient. With a flick of my wrist and a few slashes in between, I saw my name written on the form in what was known among the people as _"doctor's scrawl"._

Well, if you were about to fall off your heels in exhaustion, stress, and other unhealthy aspects, I suppose your signature wouldn't be in the best state either.

Flipping the page up, I did the same to that page and dropped the previous page on it.

Alright... next patient. Who's next?

Picking both of the pages up, I blinked when I came to the end of the clipboard. Only a plastic grey board was behind the page. It took me a second too long to register what this meant. Wait. Am I done? My last patient has already come? How did I not notice?

I thought back to how many patients I had. A total of eight patients. Their visits were a blur but certainly they didn't go by that quickly.

But they had and I felt the stress lift off my shoulders when I realized what this meant.

I couldn't hide the little grin that crossed my features. I shouldn't be this happy about a patient within my care. It was wrong, but I had a feeling Sherlock was a very peculiar exception to these morals. So far he had been to all the ones I had previously set for myself when I entered this profession. I don't know how. Maybe it was his attitude or some other aspect that slithered in and sidled next to my rebellious nature.

Whatever the reason, I was anticipating the meeting with Sherlock Holmes. I already had to go to his room to deliver any and all injuries he managed to contract and ways to move without stressing them. It would be a strictly professional visit. My mates wouldn't think anything of the fact that I might have a little skip in my walk just to meet the younger Holmes.

My grin faltered.

Then again, I was also a tad anxious. This anxiety just made me all the more curious of the man, but I still couldn't hide the fact that what he knew of me was very intriguing since I have never met him before in my life. How could he have known something of my past that I have kept strictly hidden? He's not even a Translucent. It's obvious that he is the common Monochrome, but the way he was able to tell I was a captain was very surprising.

And definitely interesting. Damn it all.

Smiling, I was about to get up and retrieve my stuff to leave after the conversation when a knock came to my door. A second later, an average height woman with short white (maybe blond if color existed) hair peeked in. I saw her hair bob slightly at the movement when she peered at me from behind the door. The smile only spread. Mary. Right, didn't I promise to take her out tonight?

She grinned in response, "Hey John."

I nodded in her direction, "Mary."

"You ready?" She motioned to the door she just came through as if to tell me to get off my arse and out this door. She was definitely the tough one. She may appear sweet and innocent, but I have been on the opposite end of her anger – mostly when under alcohol – and she has a mean right hook. My jaw still hurts from the contact. Still, she was a good friend and a long lasting one as well.

See how I say friend? We are not soul mates though that didn't seem to bother us. Friends worked. She was, along with Sarah, one of the first people to actually come up to me and help me around when I first applied here. She was also a friend before all of this, knowing me as far back as before I went to the military.

She was a good friend. I would be lying if I said I didn't wish for the opposite, though.

"Yeah, give me a second. I need to go to one more patient before we leave. Deliver the usual news." I didn't tell her how I might take a tad longer for my own selfish reasons, but she nodded nonetheless. She knew me and that smile only emphasized that.

"Alright. Just don't take more than an hour, John," she waggled her finger at me, "Or I will come in no matter what you are doing and will drag you out by those ears of yours." And she was serious. I almost instinctively covered my ears but barely kept my hands down. She would do it too. Maybe not too hard, but she would definitely do it if she had to.

She walked out the door and I grabbed my jumper and gray coloured folders before flipping the lights off and shutting the door behind me.

I strolled down the corridor to the stairs. If I was correct, the 200s should be along floor 4. So that would be one floor below me. Well, that's convenient.

Quickly going down the steps, I looked at each room until I found room 221. It was in the most desolate part of the corridor and I smiled sadly when I realized that was probably the point of this.

I was about to knock on the door, but a voice stopped me before I had the chance.

"Come in Doctor Watson."

Temporarily stunned, I walk in and grin sheepishly. Sherlock was sitting there, ignoring the platter of food placed on his cot and pressing random buttons on the telly. He didn't look amused. If anything, he looked very, _very_ bored.

Closing the door, I walked over to the chair and sat beside him. I didn't know what to say so I just went into doctor mode and began to explain his injuries in detail. He didn't stop me.

"Your injuries are not too severe. For that, you are lucky. If the bullet had lodged itself in the lungs you might have been in worse condition than simple bed rest. That being said, the stitching should hold for common household chores and the like, but no strenuous work or the sutures will be pulled. Keep off them and let them dissolve or if you would like them out as soon as possible, you can come in two weeks from now and I will personally remove them after a thorough check up."

I paused to see if he caught on. He gave a jerky nod and I continued.

"The cuts are in a range from shallow to deep. Certain ones had to be stitched to cease blood loss, but it was only a select few. Again, no strenuous activity or these could be pulled and the scenario can be made worse. Other cuts will heal over time. Be sure to replace the gauze or have someone help you with it daily. I would advice you to take a shower in two days from now, but it's optional depending on your hygienic preferences."

Picking his arm up, the one plastered and under a long sleeve shirt, I motioned to the fractured ulna, "I advise to not use this arm. It is best. At least wait a week before doing anything with pressure. Too much pressure and the ulna could break. Then you would be back here again." The whole time I said this I ignored that little spark that occurred. It must mean he was close to what my mate will be like. Definitely.

After putting his arm down and discerning the little spark as an accident in my genes, I looked at Sherlock. He was watching me with this curious expression which quickly changed to indifference as I caught it.

"Are you done?" he prompted.

I nodded and he sighed.

"Finally. I was getting bored having to catalog all of that information. Really, could you doctor's get any duller? I highly doubt it. Then we would have a real epidemic on our hands now wouldn't we, captain?" I winced at the title again.

Ah! Right!

"Wait, how did you know that?" I stopped him and he eyed me with amusement.

"Oh? The military stature you uphold? Simple. If you want more, I can tell that you are a Monochrome, have a older sibling – brother no doubt –, has a little hobby in art, no relationships because you gave up on them. Do you want more?"

I sat there stunned. Shaking my head, I felt the grin fall on my face, "Yes. Can you tell me how you did that?"

He seemed taken aback by my interest but complied with a few murmurs, "Military. Clearly returned from across seas perhaps three weeks ago. The tan line on your hands and the striking contrast under the scrubs is more proof. Also, you still have the indention that point to dog tags. You can't wear them in the hospital, but you wear them everywhere else. Your posture points to highly trained and the stern voice you gave your pathetic aide was one of higher rank than a typical greenie but not as high as a Lieutenant. Captain was a guess, but a good one." He shrugged and I stood their like a bass fish. That was brilliant. Absolutely.

"And the Monochrome and sibling?" I pushed on and he raised a brow. Surprised. I caught him by surprise. For some reason I felt like I should be proud of that.

"Monochrome was easy. Ridiculously so. If you were Iridescent you would have a white aura around you and if you were Discoloured, it would be a black aura instead but neither exist on your person. Additionally, you are not avoiding people or warding them off therefore you can't be a Sombre. Process of elimination. Monochrome. As for the sibling, it was more so speculation than deduction. When I spoke of my brother, you stiffened. This probably meant you had a sibling that passed or someone that you seem to have a very thin-ice relationship with. Now, that could mean brother or sister. I assumed older sibling considering your sudden understanding. If you were older, you would defend Mycroft for wanting to protect me and all that rubbish but you didn't. Instead, you sympathized with me and stayed on my side. Younger siblings tend to do that. Next, brother. Specifically, a brother who drinks, but that is another matter. The bracelet around your wrist says Clara but seeing as you are of no relationship status, it must belong to a brother. Pastel soul mate no doubt."

I let this reel in as I watched his expression course from blatant annoyance to slight amusement.

"And my... relationship?" I stammered and he pursed his lips.

Sherlock looked like he was about to answer but peered over my shoulder to the small window on the door, smirking, "I believe that will have to wait. You seem to have somebody waiting for you. Friend?"

I laugh, "Yeah, friend. I promised her to drinks after I talked to you."

He didn't laugh with me, I noticed. He didn't seem like he liked the relationship sort. I kind of felt bad for the bloke.

"Well, if your curious, your talents are brilliant." I grinned and he was taken aback again. Yes! Two times in a row.

"Really? Most people assume I'm a Translucent who dyed their hair and got some sort of skin make up," he shrugged but I could tell my answer meant a big deal to the man.

"No. You are definitely not a Translucent. You're Monochrome for sure. As for your talents, absolutely astounding. Extraordinary. Why would others think any different? It's... breath taking." The man's features softened and he gave a small smile. I didn't expect a thanks and assumed this was it. Picking up my stuff, I throw my jumper on and briefly think of one thing that stuck out in his deductions.

"But!" I let a smirk fall on my face, "I don't have a brother. Sister. Her name is Harriet."

His expression plummeted to self-annoyance. I watched in amusement as he cursed about "missing one detail" and "always forgetting one".

Deciding to leave him on that note, I start to make my way to the door and gripped the door handle. My hand was about to turn when a voice called out to me in the silence. I never realized the grumbles had stopped.

"John?"

I looked back, "Yes? Do you need anything?"

He hesitated before speaking slowly, "I was wondering if you would come to this room tomorrow? I want to ask you something but I would rather not keep you from your friend."

I nodded and smile, "Sure, mate! See you later. Don't stay up too late. Seems your brother is running this room."

This earned a groan from Sherlock and I snickered on my way out. Mary looked at me with curiosity.

"What happened in there Doctor Watson?"

I shook my head, "nothing. Just idle chit chat."

She stopped, "Are you sure?"

I stopped next to her, "Yeah. I'm sure. I told him of his injuries and he told me something absolutely extraordinary. That's it. Why?"

She looked at me from head to toe, lips pursed. After a minute she gave me a small look that I could discern if it was worry or amusement.

"Well, John. Don't know if you can tell, but you're glowing."


	5. Delicate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Well, John. Don't know if you can tell, but you're glowing."_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Yeah, I needed another drink. I haven't had enough yet. Not nearly.

_"Well, John. Don't know if you can tell, but you're glowing."_

Yeah, I needed another drink. I haven't had enough yet. Not nearly.

I was acting pathetic. This was supposed to be one fantastic night with Mary to celebrate her promotion, but now it's ended up a drink-until-you-drop party just to drown out what happened. Mary didn't say anything but smiled sympathetically and would joke around every so often. I kept my hand on a shot at all times. My rational side told me to stop this, but rationality was out the window the second I was told I was glowing.

_Glowing._

God. Maybe it was the light. Yeah, that's it. Somebody placed a lamp behind me and made it appear I had an aura of an Iridescence. Must be it. No other way.

Because I definitely did not find my soul mate.

Preposterous.

I took another shot and ordered a backup.

I could feel my capacity to think slowly go down the drain. I should know better. I should. I am a bloody doctor. I know drinking messes up your systems and I know it doesn't solve anything. I mean, I have Harry to show for that. Drinking doesn't solve anything and yet that appears to be the Watson way of dealing with things. My father and Harry would be oh so proud of me joining their little troupe of alcoholics.

Except I'm not good at holding my liquor nor do I have an endurance. After perhaps a few pints and one or two shots, I could feel my last smidgeon of rationality fly out the window with an SOS sign attached to it.

Luckily I had Mary with me or I would be royally caught in a jam.

"John. It's not that bad. Maybe it's just he weird lighting. You know how the hospital lights are," she spoke, patting my back. I sighed and looked at her. She gave a smile back, but I could tell she didn't like me drinking. I didn't like it either.

And yet I somehow found another shot in my hand.

"Yeah... but... but... still. I mean... ugh. I can't concentrate with my... my head like this," I groaned and Mary patted my back again.

"At least your speech isn't slurred," she added cheerfully and I laughed humorlessly.

"Yet."

She didn't say anything to that and continued to help me along my miserable path of being an utter drunk.

"Mary," I squeezed my eyes shut (like that would help) and opened them to look at her.

"Hm?" she responded, sipping her drink thoughtfully as she watched the telly in the pub.

"I'm... I'm sorry for tonight. I really am. I don't know why that whole glowing thing caught me by surprise since normally I don't get caught by surprise because I'm an army man you know and nothing can catch me off guard but that one little phrase did and-" I continued to ramble and ramble and Mary's expression changed to one of amusement. After a minute of this, she placed her index finger over my lips and hushed me. I continued to apologize with my eyes.

"Oh goodness John. I am having an interesting time. Maybe not as astounding as a dinner for two could have been, but something new. For one," she grinned, "I found that you are a very emotional drunk."

"'m not," I mumbled and she pressed her index finger more firmly against my lips.

"Listen to me. Tomorrow, go back to that man's room. I don't support the denial, but if that what helps you through this drinking habit you might pursue, do it. Although, I will say that after a while you won't be able to discern it as lighting or a lightning strike. But until that time comes just continue to act as you normally do. Besides," she giggled, "That man didn't seem the type for you, John. Perhaps it was my sight. Maybe."

She moved her finger to place both of her hands on either side of my face, "Do you understand what I am saying, John?"

I nodded and she smiled before kissing my forehead. Any other passerby would view it as affection, but it was just Mary being Mary. She was very mother hen like and doted on most of her friends like she was their godmother of sorts. It's why so many people like her at the hospital. She's also one of the few people who work in the Sanctuary and Coping Zones without changing psychologically. My first friend and my backup mother. Didn't expect it to mix when I first saw her.

After making me drink a glass of water and munching on some chips to help the liquor, she pushed me into a cab, paid for my fare, and then sent me home.

Morning came too quickly.

The next day I was tempted to call in sick. Very tempted. So tempted in the fact that talking to Sherlock Holmes was almost not enough to get me out of bed. Luckily for my job and that childish man, I have a driving force in this flat.

That being Harriet.

"John!" she cried, pulling the blankets off of me. That resulted in my hands grabbing my pillow and stuffing it in my face, ignoring the pulsing headache. I turned my entire body to avoid the sunlight piercing through the curtains.

"Oh no you don't," she huffed before wrestling with me for the pillow. It was futile on my case. I was weakened by the abuse of alcohol. She took it without a problem and I didn't have anything left to do but just plunge my face into the mattress itself. No. I was not getting up as long as that damn sun was up.

Drinking was the worst idea ever. You'd think I would know that from my Uni days but apparently not.

I heard a sigh and a second later Harry was beside me, "John. Do you really wish me to repeat what happened last time you did this? I could definitely get those water guns if you want." I was up in an instant although I quickly hated the movement and used my hands to shield my eyes. Harry got the hint real quick.

Leaving the room temporarily, she came back with a glass of water and a pill I assumed would help with this blinding headache. She sat down next to me on the mattress and coaxed the glass into my hands with the pills. I took them quickly before hiding my face again.

Why. Why did I drink? Why couldn't I have been rational? Damn it. And the hospital was full of windows. Today was going to be grand. Absolutely grand.

"John," Harry poked me and I glared at her before closing my eyes, "Why did you go drinking? Normally you are the designated driver, not the one to get completely wasted. So what was it? Coworker? Bad day at work I assume?" I didn't reply, but she could tell. She was my sister after all.

"You know drinking is not going to fix the problem," she reminded and I laughed with no amusement.

"Really? You do it a lot regardless." She stiffened at that and stood, sighing.

"Fine. I'll go get Clara. Maybe she can help. I'm not good with being sensible. That's why I have her," I knew she was grinning and when I peeked up she was gone. A minute later another hand, smaller and thinner, touched my shoulder and I met the calm eyes of Clara. She looked worried. Goodness, when isn't she worried? She had to deal with Harry.

Covering my eyes once more, I continued to stare at the kind floor. I saw the outline of my shadow and Clara's next to it.

She didn't say anything. She left me to wallow in my pain and I began to feel guilty. That was the "Clara Charm" though, as Harry called it. Making you feel bad when you know you did nothing. Absolutely nothing.

"Clara? What did you do when you thought you might have found your mate?" I asked with exhaustion, squinting a little into the light. I might as well get used to it.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "Did you?" I shook my head quickly.

"Uh... no. Not me. A bloke at work. Thinks he found her, but he's not sure." And then I somehow made the mistake of averting my eyes, the key tell-tale sign of lying. If Clara caught it she didn't say anything to it.

"Well... then this mate of yours should maybe spend more time with the specific girl. You know, get to know her. After a bit maybe then he can bring it up to her and go from there. They shouldn't rush it. That's a sign for a horrible bond," she smiled and I realized why this was Harry's mate and why even though she may be drunk and gone in the haze of irrationality, she still comes home.

Part of me wished to have someone like that while the other half was against it. Independent. The soldier. Ever the soldier that wishes for nobody to rely on.

Clearing my throat, I nodded, "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. Thanks Clara."

Standing up with me, she kissed me on the cheek and walked out with a short-handed wave, "Anytime John."

Within the next fifteen minutes along with a helping cup of tea, I was gone. Harry had a pair of sunglasses in her fingers, but I didn't take them. I could just see the giggles she would give if I took them. Mainly because they were hers and she knew it. Female glasses on me? I'll pass. Gratefully.

When I walked in, Mary was at my side in an instant. She gave me this look of sympathy and I sighed.

"I regret drinking," I groaned.

"Says everyone who has a hangover," she replied with a smirk before handing over a clipboard with my patients for today.

"We don't have that many today so after you get them, you can probably go home. I don't think Sarah would mind too much. Besides, you and her are mates so she probably wouldn't care," Mary shrugged with a smile. I nodded, looking forward to the early release.

Well, after I talk with Sherlock.

Waving goodbye, I headed to the Clinical Zone, mentally cringing as I passed by the Sanctuary Zone to get there. I could already hear the wails and cries. The hang over didn't help that and made it so much worse.

I glance at the clipboard and nodded.

_Name: Lucille Faye_

_Age: 11_

_Race/Division: Translucence_

_Symptoms: Patient says she was attacked by one of the Violent Vicinity. Scratches and possible sprained wrist. Check for concussion. Otherwise, perfectly fine._

_Additional notes: She is quite shy. Don't make any quick movements._

Knocking on the door, I waited a few seconds before walking in. I was met with a tiny girl, clearly Translucence, with short, wavy hair of a white color. I could see the veins and malnourished figure closely associated with the Translucent sort and knew this was Ms. Lucille.

"Hello Lucille," I greeted and walked slowly toward her. She stiffened a little, her eyes looking at me and not seeing me. I waited a second and she relaxed after a shook her hand. She offered a shaky smile. Oh, the poor girl. This was probably her first time being here in the hospital and by the looks of the records, she's orphaned. She probably wanted to run back to her group by this point.

I fetched the bandages and slowly coaxed her arms from her chest to wrap them, "What happened to you if you don't mind me asking, Ms. Faye?" I have to be calm which wasn't too hard.

"The... The Violence got to me," was all she replied in her soft whisper. I nodded.

"Did they do anything else to you?" If so, I was going to have to call the New Scotland Yard to tell them of this. They won't be able to do much, but they can try to protect her kind a little. God, the Violent Vicinity was getting out of order.

The Violent Vicinity is much like the Translucent. Actually, they are exactly like them. They are severely pale with skin so translucent that anybody can see the veins and organs of their being. They are advanced mentally and can tell almost anything about you. On top of that, they have the malnourished figure and sharp cheekbones the type carries.

That being said, they do hold their differences.

Their blood is black. It can be viewed by a Monochrome or Iridescence and still be black. They are very cocky and have red (or so I hear from the Iridescence) eyes that change to silver when angered unlike the Translucence's blue – yet another color I would like to assign to this name – eyes.

Of course they have to be the opposite of the Translucence. Their goal is to get rid of them actually and it's because of that that we have so many of the Translucence coming into this hospital. They try their hardest to get rid of them. That's probably what happened to poor Lucille here.

Wrong place wrong time.

Snipping the bandages, I rubbed the frayed edge to the other bandage and smoothed it out. I took care of her other injuries with little to no conversation. If I did speak, it would be to tell her what I was doing to make her feel at ease. Nothing promotional nor of information worthy. Just to keep her calm and relaxed. I didn't want her to be scared in such a safe haven.

Within half an hour everything was done. She hopped down and was about to go to the door when I called to her.

"Ms. Faye?"

She froze, but it wasn't in fear. I think I just surprised her really.

Turning around slowly, she looked to where my voice came from and I smiled. I handed her a piece of candy. Nothing more than a lollipop, but her face brightened immediately once she realized what it was. A smile bloomed and it was worth it.

"Doctor Watson?" she murmured.

I nodded.

"Thank you."

My grin widened and I replied as I usually do, "You are very welcome. Please be careful from here on. I don't want you back here unless it's just a stroll, you hear?" She giggled and nodded before walking out with a wave.

I sighed, the lingerings of a smile on my face. Now, for the next patient.

Turned out the other patients were check ups for the elderly. Mostly Monochrome. One of the Sepia Order and one of the Sombre divisions. It was all easy and I finished them with the greatest of ease. Everyone left happy – except for the Sombre but no one could help their cause – and I was left feeling like I fulfilled my good deeds of the day.

That's when I saw the last name on the list.

_Sherlock Holmes._

I was about to dismiss it and put it down for the moment when an extra paper behind it caught my attention. This wasn't here before . I know this wasn't here before because I am Sherlock's personal doctor until he is healed. Mary couldn't have placed this here or anybody for that matter. Who would put this here then? It is clearly about Sherlock Holmes judging from the name on top.

_Mycroft Holmes._

Everything clicked. Of course. He's probably trying to get me to leave Sherlock alone. Sadly, that doesn't seem to be happening anytime soon.

The clipboard tipped towards the desk where I was going to put it but curiosity gripped me. It was in my documents and if Mycroft placed this here then surely this is fine for me to read? I have his consent.

Taking a deep breath, I peered at the paper. I was immediately met by a note by the motherly brother.

_Doctor Watson,_

_Seeing as you will be Sherlock's doctor as well as his companion while he is there, I am going to give this to you. You are to, under no circumstances, show this to Sherlock or tell him of this. Do not tell anyone else of what this is. Do not keep this. Burn it if you will. I would rather not have this document go into the wrong hands and I trust that after you read this you will learn why Sherlock is under my jurisdiction._

_-Mycroft Holmes_

Pursing my lips, I took off the note and placed it aside.

The paper underneath was clearly for the government. Or, at least, it was under that high of security. Underneath the symbol was Sherlock's full name, age, and everything about him. It was all normal, like any Monochrome, except for one detail.

_Name: Sherlock William Scott Holmes_

_Age: 36_

_Race/Division: Monochrome*_

That was the normal objectives in this form. The exception was the asterisk. It was practically an entire report on an event which lead to more conclusions and less confusion.

_*At the age of 12, Sherlock Holmes was subjected to certain tests due to an illness he contracted that was close to being terminal. In the case of these tests, he was cured of the disease and never showed symptoms to even having it in the first place. However, to be cured of this illness, his gene structure was changed by the methods used. The drug administered, a type influenced by the Translucence, enabled him to show distinct changes similar to their stature. He can see though his eyes are of their blue. He always appears malnourished and his skin seems to have paled from his earlier hue. On top of that, his mental skills have increased to profound levels, going as far as to be able to "deduct" people and what they have done. Confidentiality level: 5_

Some of the details made some sense now. Like his skin color and the pale grey in his eyes that seem to apply to the color blue. His deductions and almost most of what made him stand out suddenly made sense.

For some reason I didn't like knowing this. The mystery was one of the best factors of this man. Not to mention, why can't Sherlock know about this? Why doesn't he remember? I have to abide by confidentiality, but at the same time I wanted to break it to show Sherlock.

Sighing I folded the paper and stuck it in the inner linings of my jacket and walked out the door, flipping the lights.

I didn't care about the note. I didn't care at all. Definitely not. What I did care about was going to see Sherlock.

Right. He wanted to talk to me, didn't he?

Well, I suppose my day was going to be a little bit more interesting before I leave.

As if it hadn't been already.


	6. Psychedelic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Opening the door, I wasn't surprised to see the detective glaring at what the meal the nurses delivered to him.
> 
> "This is rubbish," he spoke with disgust. I rose a brow in his direction, but he failed to see the mocking expression.
> 
> "That 'rubbish' is what every patient in this hospital gets when they have to stay longer than a few hours. Jello and easy to eat accommodations."

Opening the door, I wasn't surprised to see the detective glaring at the meal the nurses delivered to him.

"This is rubbish," he spoke with disgust. I rose a brow in his direction, but he failed to see the mocking expression.

"That _'rubbish'_ is what every patient in this hospital gets when they have to stay longer than a few hours. Jello and easy to eat accommodations."

A gagging noise seemed to crawl up Sherlock's throat but never made it to his mouth. Well, I'm sorry Princess. I can't bring you fancy food when nobody else can get the same. It was unequal and it wasn't in my morals. 

But of course, I didn't mention this. It would be like arguing with a little kid wanting a lollipop instead of a biscuit.

Sherlock pushed his tray away from him with his good arm.

"And you wonder why the patients stay here longer than they should," he muttered and I sighed. Really. He was practically like a child – _again_ – who wanted candy and junk food for his hospital meals. He needs to realize he isn't getting special treatment here. Even children don't get special treatment and normally they are more pampered than anyone in this building. Thank God I don't work in that department. It would end swiftly in an early retirement.

I sat in the chair beside his cot and watched him flip through some of the channels like last night. He didn't look amused. Then again, he didn't look amused last night as well. He didn't seem one for the media at all actually.

"And rubbish reception. This is a wonderful occupational area you have set for yourself, Doctor."

I could hear the sarcasm and felt my hairs bristle along with my pride, "Oh, shush it you. Everyone is equal here and has the same meals and same ' rubbish' reception as you do and I don't hear them complaining. I fail to see how you are any different than them and don't you dare mention the fact that your posh excuse of a brother is part of the bloody government because that doesn't mean nearly as much here as it would mean elsewhere."

After that, I sat there in my chair, fuming. I didn't see Sherlock's expression, but I would assume it would be indifferent. No doubt he is depreciating me and assuming I'm immature and short-tempered, which I'm not. Well, never mind. That can be debatable. Very. Nonetheless, he was probably unaffected by my words. Tuned them out like a bad antenna on the telly.

He wasn't too fond of relationships from what I see. If that is the case, then why is he inviting me to speak with him? Clearly this might end badly. It's already starting off splendidly.

Sherlock ceased flipping channels, or so I took notice of when the station stayed on the same women for longer than 10 seconds.

"John."

I didn't look at him. I refused to dismiss what he said. He was mocking me. I was not going to just forgive him like that. I had too much pride to allow him the decency of being forgiven that quickly. If we were going to be soul mates, he might as well know my flaws since there are a lot and they all derive from the military ironic enough.

"John, look at me."

Sod off you pompous git. You need to learn to apologize. Better yet, maybe I should buy you a bloody book! Then you can actually learn how to speak to people you should treat with respect and not with this... I don't know how to describe it. Disinterest? Aloofness? Some word that I probably would have to search the dictionary for a ridiculous amount of time to find? Probably.

Speaking to him was definitely not on that list. Yes, I suppose I would have brushed it aside if I didn't suspect us being future mates. If we weren't to be that I would have just laughed it off or rolled my eyes. Perhaps I'm being over-reactive. I've been told that by some people. It normally comes with emotional stress and not being able to cope with change, apparently.

Well, this definitely qualifies for that.

Clara said I should talk to him and get used to him since I think – rather unlikely might I add – that he is my mate. I should get used to him and kind of become accustomed to him. Right now, that was an impossibility and I don't think it will change. Not at this moment.

"John, _please_ ," Sherlock whined and I gave a relenting sigh before looking at him.

His gaze was fully on me and as expected, expressionless besides the little signs of whining and complaining.

I could see the little tidbits that made him look like the Translucence part he had in him. It was clear and yet not. The sharp cheekbones, the blue eyes, pale skin, and skinny frame. Those were it, but it definitely made him appear one of them. If not for the fact the veins and organs couldn't be viewed and his hair was black, I would assume that he was a full-fledged translucent.

But he wasn't. Only part. A bigger part than he should be but a part nonetheless.

I still don't know where he got that attitude from though considering the Translucent are wonderful people to be around. Must be the Monochrome. Or his brother. Or both.

"Remember what I said last night?" he spoke and I nodded, still slightly irritated but curious. I wanted to know what he was interested in telling me. The reasons were in halves I must admit. A part was because I wanted to know if he noticed the spark and if I should avoid him. The other was because he was the most intriguing person, Monochrome or otherwise, I have ever met and I wanted to hear every word he had to say... as odd as that sounds.

He leaned back against the cot and sighed.

"I want to make a little... preposition. If you are willing to accept." I caught the tinge of 'if you want to I mean' underlining his words but made no move to mock him with them. It was clear he wasn't used to asking for permission and just kind of assumed most revolved around him and go with him whether they want to or not.

"A preposition upon what grounds?" I ask carefully. I didn't expect anything far-fetched, despite the aura Sherlock seemed to give off.

"One concerning living arrangements," he responded smoothly and averted his gaze to the telly. Part of him seemed annoyed for asking the question – although this looked to be directed at himself – and part was a lining of curiosity and worry. I was a little surprised to see _any_ emotion so quickly and openly.

"And why, by any means, would you want me to be taking this sudden change?" I was more than a tad surprised with the sudden question. I didn't expect it and I'm sure he didn't either. The part of me that was curious on the bond was starting to show again.

Sherlock hesitated at this question. He looked confused and irritated, but after a minute he responded quickly.

"Well, if I were to take in your occupation with the abilities of my own, then it would seem appropriate to combine them. Also, you are clearly not living on your own but wish to therefore-"

"Fibbing Sherlock," I grinned and he sighed. He wasn't used to getting caught. Certainly not by a dull Monochrome as myself.

After grumbling to himself for a bit, he looked at me and responded bluntly, "Fine. You interest me, John Watson. _"Plain and simple"_ as they say. The fact that I seem to hold this atrocious pull in your direction and have yet to discern it as something my heavy vessel of a body naturally has is beginning to wear on my mind. Therefore, the most reasonable path to go along is to study you more. I'm sure you can take account that I will not injure myself on pointless tasks because not only would that annoy yourself, but it would get very bland for myself since one soon runs out of ways to injure oneself without fatality consuming them."

He took a deep breath and met my eyes directly, "So, doctor Watson, will you or will you not accept my preposition? I don't have all day since I know after you leave the room I am to be discharged."

Silence thickened the atmosphere as our eyes interlocked but nothing broke it.

Sherlock was waiting for a response.

That I, of course, had not yet been ready to answer.

Because, like an idiot, I sat there dumbfounded and still analyzing his words. Mostly in the terms of my medical and science fields because I was in that mindset. He said he felt a pull, but he didn't get a spark. Was he dull to the soul mating process? Would he even know if his mate were to be right in front of him? He finds it annoying and absurd, which I couldn't agree more since I wasn't looking for a mate in him at the moment, and yet finds it intriguing. Like a geologist finding new territory to discover the terrain and such.

Wait, he said to move in with him. In the most roundabout ways, sure, but he did say it. To me. A man he just met. He says I'm interesting and that's why he wants me to become his flat mate, but what about myself? Unlike Sherlock who apparently has his partial Translucence genes affecting the soul mate system in his body, I am completely normal. I'm still of Monochrome standards and will feel every single bloody spark I get from just accidentally touching his pinky.

He was getting off easy.

But how was I supposed to say no? For one, he is my mate. Sadly. Another, he is a person that is appealing and the way his mind works is definitely something that attracts me to him. Not just by mating standards, but by personal curiosity. No was beginning to fly out the window and yes was settling in.

Maybe it was my background. I was used to danger and something out of the ordinary. I was attracted to adrenaline and the rush of it. For some reason, when my eyes met Sherlock, it seemed that he was nothing but all of these things combined. Something about how he wouldn't tell me how he got into the case of all those injuries or how his mind works. It was everything that I definitely wouldn't mind accompanying if given the chance.

That wasn't the only reason his offer was appealing.

Well, it would get me out of the flat of Clara and Harry. They are lovely but I really need to live on my own and away from their... relationship. Especially since I am already anxious about my possible future one. Maybe Sherlock and I can remain friends or comrades so-to-speak.

Because I didn't deserve a mate of any kind and I certainly didn't expect this one of all people. Who would? I was happy in my own little world of black, white, and grey and yet when I touched his skin ever so briefly I saw a spark of the color "blue" people mentioned. It was vibrant and contrast to my daily color schemes.

Finally, I realized I wanted to see more of these colors that I lack the sight of.

I let out a breath and Sherlock sat a little straighter. Was he nervous or was it just reflex?

"Fine."

He didn't grin like I probably would, but I could feel the little aura of feeling pleased surround himself. He probably predicted I would say that. Maybe. I'm still not sure which part of him holds Translucence and which holds Monochrome. Maybe he just knew I would say that. Maybe he knew I would think this.

Or maybe I'm just being completely absurd and he is just a git who becomes proud whenever things go his way.

"Perfect," he nodded to himself and then sighed. "Now, for your newly appointed flatmate, is there any way to get better meals in this sort of establishment?"

I laughed, "In your dreams."


	7. Sepia

Moving out of Harry and Clara's place was surprisingly easier than I thought it would be. I expected my sister to appear all suspicious of this random bloke that appeared suddenly and asked me to move in but she instead waved her hand around, claiming that I needed to move out so I could find my mate. The way her mate acted was more subtle. Clara nodded though I could see her expression foretold that she knew why I was moving in with Sherlock.

Saying my farewells came easy and I tugged a suitcase behind me as I left the flat and towards the cab at the curb. The driver helped me place my case in the back while I got in and took out my phone to check the time. I should be earlier than expected. Sherlock said he might have found a place that would meet both of our standards – which made me wonder where he lived prior to this – but I would have to be present with him.

_"7 o clock sharp, John. Don't be late."_

Why would I be late? Not to mention, why did it matter if I was late? Did he have somewhere to go? As far as I knew, he didn't seem to have a job at all! On top of that, he was injured and healing. Performing some sort of extreme activity was definitely not advised by someone of my stature. How did he expect to actually pay for this flat which he got for a "good deal" if he didn't have the money to follow? I hope he didn't expect me to pay for both of us because I don't nearly get paid enough for that yet otherwise I would be in my own flat by this point.

When the driver got into the cab, I directed him to the address – 221 B Baker Street – and awaited the arrival I anticipated and was in confliction with.

What if I was wrong? About the both of us being soul mates? It wouldn't be the first time, but I would rather it be the last if that was the case. I was almost certain that wasn't it but with how stoic and standoff-ish this man appeared to be, I wasn't so sure anymore. He didn't appear to feel it as intensely as I, but he did feel a pull.

Does that still count?

I shook my head, scolding myself. Get ahold of yourself, Watson. You were a captain. Worrying over such petty issues is not your kind of scene. Just wait it out and proceed from there, like when you were in Afghanistan. If you succumb to the usual worries you will lose any sense of personality you ever had and when something does happen and you will hesitate. You know very well what hesitation brings.

It brings error or a disaster.

So, that being said, observing how this goes is the best course of action.

In the back of my mind, I wondered how long we would really last.

"Sir," I blinked and met the gaze of the driver. He was motioning for the exit and I realized we were here. Nodding my thanks and paying the fare, I got out of the cab and retrieved my luggage before ascending to the doorstep.

My brow rose when I saw Sherlock was not here yet. He warned me to not be late and then he does the same? I swear that man… a hypocrite and a child. And apparently my mate. Lovely. Grand.

The sun went down slowly and I found my foot tapping with anxiety on the pavement.

I checked my watched. It has been almost 10 minutes. Where the hell was he?

Glancing up at the small light close to the doorstep, I sighed and looked down. My muscles tensed and my senses heightened when I saw a shadow, larger than my own, appear behind me. Almost like a switch my military side spoke up and began to prepare me for a reaction.

_Perhaps if I turn around and swiftly jab him in his abdomen he will be disoriented enough for me to grab his arm and twist it behind his back. Then I can just push him against the side of the building to pin his other arm. From there I can deal with him with more civility._

Counting to three, I did just that. The man who was currently groaning in front of my, keeling slightly from the angle I was holding his arm at, was definitely a good head taller than me. He looked dirty, full of grime and whatever else he rolled in while in an alley. His hair was blackened though in the lighting I couldn't tell if it was from some sort of fluid or if it was his actual hair color. The Monochrome genes didn't make it any easier.

Now why he was here is the real question.

"May I inquire why you appeared behind me, mate?" I questioned lowly into the man's ear. I put order behind it and as much intimidation as I could muster from my past. It wasn't too hard considering I was already agitated from the late Sherlock Holmes.

"John…" the man groaned and I froze temporarily. I knew that voice. Very well in fact.

"Sherlock?" I spoke in confusion and annoyance as I backed off of him and allowed him to stretch. I was grateful I pinned his good arm behind his back and not the other or his fractured ulna would have definitely complained. Not to mention the sutures and stitches in his abdomen. Did I by chance pull them? Damn it. It was all his fault for not making his appearance known, but I still felt guilty for not observing him more. I could have prevented this somewhat awkward situation.

"Ah, yes. Your observational skills are superb, Watson," he groaned before glaring at me.

I shrugged. "I'm sorry. If you were going to appear to me like some of the bums from the Grime Zones in the city I would have looked for you but I was under the impression that you would appear differently. Actually, now that we are on that topic, why do you appear like you have rolled around in anything and everything in the local alley?"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, "Another time, John. For now, let's get our living arrangements in order. That is why you are here, correct?"

I watched him knock on the door. Not a second later it opened to reveal a small elderly woman. She was grinning but the second she spotted the state of Sherlock her hands went to her hips and her lips pursed in annoyance.

"Sherlock! What have you been doing at this hour? Is it one of your cases? I swear, young man, you have just gotten out of the hospital and now you are looking to be put back in!" She would have continued on had Sherlock not kissed her on the cheek and motioned towards me. He looked significantly more at ease now that the woman was here. Mother? No, no resemblances.

Another question to ask him.

"Mrs. Hudson, this is John Watson. He will be accompanying me in the flat upstairs. You should expect him to be living here from now on. John? This is Mrs. Hudson. She is the landlady at this flat." Mrs. Hudson looked over to me and judged me up and down before giving a happy little noise and pulling us both in. While Sherlock brushed past us and went upstairs, Mrs. Hudson kept me back.

"Are you living with him as a friend or…?" she left the question hanging and I patted her hand, already liking the woman.

"Just a flat mate." I don't know why I lied to her. She was incredibly nice and I don't see why I couldn't have told her the truth. Perhaps it was my uncertainty. I didn't want to give unsure promises.

Her face faltered but she still patted my cheek in affection and rushed me upstairs, "Alright, dear. Now go up and stop that boy from destroying my flat, will you? I will bring up some biscuits and tea soon enough." I nodded with a smile and quickly climbed up the steps.

The flat inside was a mess but that was what I expected.

All around were papers and books, beakers and flasks. It was a mess of knowledge and in the center was the messy black and white blur of Sherlock Holmes.

In the white light he appeared dirtier than before. Every part of him was covered in some sort of black smudge that was certainly dirt, grime, or even oil. He was in such a state that I was not sure whether those black splotches around his abdomen was blood from the snapped sutures or just more dirt from the alleys.

"You know," I spoke calmly though agitation was definitely there, "I told you not to perform any strenuous work of any sort until you were healed. What part of you did not get that?"

Sherlock met my eyes with a roll of his own, "Really, John. I suppose I cannot blame you since you don't know me well yet, but I rarely sit around and laze about simply because of an injury. Too boring."

"Boring?" I rose my brow and he nodded stiffly.

"Yes. Like watching paint dry or the sun rise and fall. It's all boring. Cases. Cases and crimes and the whatnot around those are what intrigue me and I'm not going to let a mere fracture and stitch stop me from breaking that tedious cycle of boredom."

Okay, great. So he is like a child. He gets bored a lot but it seems he takes it to a whole new level by find preposterous ways of curing that from cases.

Wait.

"So, are you a detective then? I never thought detectives would go through such ordeals for a client," I mused as I sat on the arm of one of the chairs.

"Oh no, I don't do that all the time. I only do cases that are interesting or those that the yard apparently don't have the brains to deduce on their own, which is plenty and all of them."

"Then, you are a special detective. The yard doesn't go to detectives so I would assume you are a…"

"Consulting detective, yes," he concluded quickly while heading to the kitchen. Grabbing a wash rag, he began to run the sink and clean up his face and hands. After a few minutes his face was its usual white-gray hue that came with paleness and no cuts or injuries was visible.

Now to check the stitches.

"Well, while you tell me about all this consulting detective nonsense, why don't you sit on the sofa so I can make sure you didn't pull something extremely idiotic?" A scoff came out of the detective's mouth but he complied with a few grumbles.

I retrieved my medical kit from my luggage and got on my knees in front of Sherlock while he unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it aside. His skin was clean though I could clearly see a good stream of black protruding from one of the wounds where I stitched. I tsked at the man in front of me but made no remark. I was tempted to rant about how when I said he shouldn't do something it is for his own benefits, but I knew he wouldn't listen. That much I was sure of.

"So, consulting detective?" I prompted while biting the thread and yanking so I could stitch the broken skin.

"Ah, yes. I am the world's only consulting detective. When the police are at their wits end, or always as I have come to know, they come to me."

"And you use your deductive skills to figure the case out, I assume?" I questioned while slowly threading the needle in and out of the puckered skin.

"Quite."

He left it like that and I sighed, "Care to explain what sort of case involved you getting into this sort of mess?" I finished one of the stitches and moved to the other while checking the ulna that was previously fractured. A few sparks here and there gathered on my fingertips but I moved my hands quickly so it didn't last.

"The Sepia Order."

I met his gaze with one of confusion, "The Sepia Order? I have never heard of that group in particular. Not even by the government."

Sherlock laughed humorlessly, "That's because the government is nothing but a few men who have more power than most. Anyhow, they don't have a single clue about this group. I have only recently discovered them from the recent murder spree. The ones consisting of men in the Grime Zones?" I nodded, finished with his repairs. "They are an order that prey on the Discolored and the Sombre to scientifically bring back color. It seems those who have been subjected to this are often found completely disfigured with aspects such as orange-yellow scleras, yellow finger nails, and most of their nourishment has been depleted to skin and bones. Few I have noticed have been made blind when those who knew them before have said they had perfect vision."

"That still doesn't explain why you appeared as if you ran a kilometer to get here and out of there," I reminded.

"I found out where they were located. It's a distinct area along the Barren Zones of London. I was there previously but I was found out from some sort of noise trap they had set and I got back here. I planned to be here sooner and in better condition but cases can be rather unpredictable sometimes."

Pursing my lips, I sighed, "So what do you plan to do now? Go back?"

"Precisely."

I looked him up and down before walking over to my luggage and pulling out my old Army pistol, all the rounds still loaded.

"Fine. But I will be coming with you."

He smiled, plucking the shirt from before back on and buttoning it up, "That was what I wanted to hear, John. I'm glad to hear we are on the same page."

Wrapping a scarf around his neck and buttoning his Belstaff coat, he motioned me to follow him as we ran down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson was at the bottom with a tray of biscuits and two cups of tea. I gave her an apologetic expression but she brushed it off and looked disapprovingly at Sherlock.

"Young man, you better not get this good friend of yours into trouble! He seems nice and I don't want to hear you got him scratched and bruises to prove a point." But she smiled anyways. I think she knew that Sherlock wouldn't do that, however, I wasn't so sure myself. I barely knew this man.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson. You can leave to condiments on the table in the flat."

When we got out of the door, Sherlock was already running through an alley. I had no trouble keeping up but seeing him altogether was a different story.

"Just so you know, I'm not following you so I can see this case of yours! I'm just worried about you stressing your wounds!"

I could feel the smirk in the detective's response, "Then why can I tell that your pulse has heightened and adrenaline is rushing through your veins? I suppose you could say it is running, but I believe you are actually enjoying this rush, are you not doctor?"

Glaring at his back, I sighed in defeat (very hard to do while running) and smiled, "Maybe. Maybe you are right, but I will not give you the liberty of knowing so!"

"Oh, but I think you already have."


	8. Hue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm getting a tad lazy with chapter summaries so some may have one and some may not. It purely depends on the chapter itself.

"Is this it then?" I whispered beside Sherlock, peering around a few crates at a building that was languidly guarded. The structure itself was a warehouse with a few little compartments attached to it. I couldn't see any light within the heavily tinted windows but didn't attempt to get any closer than I was. No doubt I would be spotted by even those idle protectors. Every so often a man or women would pass by the entrance of the enigmatic building with a bored expression.

Scattered around the entrance were multiple piles of crates, one of which Sherlock and I were currently hiding behind. Everything was eerily quiet without any breeze to change it. It was like an atmosphere itself was waiting for something to happen.

Curiosity was burning in my veins and adrenaline was following neck in neck. We must have been a quarter of a mile from the building, but my feet were itching to get closer. I wanted to see what this secret society was a part of and if I should attempt to exploit it. I couldn't deny the rush that came with it was exhilarating.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was completely calm beside me. He was looking everywhere, but the warehouse, specifically at the shrubs and trees dotting the walls. I couldn't see what he was aiming with those sort of aspects, but he was an odd one. No doubt he had some plan in his head that was extremely dangerous, stupid, and genius.

"Sherlock!" I hissed and he jerked out of his reverie, glancing at me.

"Hm? Oh, yes. This is it. I didn't think you would need clarification. Your pulse and heart beat certainly didn't need one." He smirked at me and I rolled my eyes.

"Okay, Mr. Smart Alec, so while we are here waiting for an opportunity, might I ask what The Sepia Order does?" That was the one piece of information he never gave me and couldn't piece myself no matter how much I stressed my brain. I have wondered if it is because he didn't know it or if he was keeping information out. Either way, the question seemed to have left him speechless and reserved. I began to have my doubts when he responded.

"That is what I am here to find out," he confirmed after a moment of awkward silence. "Like I said before, I have been monitoring them since the string of murders, but I have yet to distinguish why they are here and what their objective is."

I was about to open my mouth again to ask another question when he shook his head.

"We can't sit here asking questions about what we don't know. It's pointless and it will waste any valuable time we have to figure it out ourselves. We have to start with action and that is where you will come in specifically."

"Me?" I rose my brow at him, "When did I happen to get pulled into your plan? As far as I am concerned, I never expressed much need before to hint at my coming with you?"

Sherlock looked and me and he mirrored me, "If we are to be flatmates you should know the worst of me, I suppose. For one, I tend to generate multiple scenarios to one case. Therefore when you said you would come with me that fulfilled one them and the plan can go accordingly without pause. It limits the number of frays and miscalculations in a case."

 _"So he is like a computer so to speak, a machine even,"_ I thought amused, _"Or he is too smart for his own good. More than likely the latter."_

Sherlock took a deep breath, sparing a sidelong glimpse at the traversing guards.

"But that is beside the point. I need you to go up to the guards and knock them unconscious. There are only two and they seem rather inattentive."

"Are you sure there are only two?" I received a look that could have been acidic and I chuckled, "Okay got it. Don't get all angry now."

Crouching along the edge of the shadow the crates made, I awaited the guard to turn before quickly moving behind the next pile of crates, this one a few meters from one of the guards. Now that I was this close I could clearly see both guards. One was a female of average height and she seemed to be patrolling the extensions more than the building, in which was being secured by a male about Sherlock's height.

The male would probably be the easiest to go after. The female, although seemingly weak, had something off about her. Maybe it was her spacey expression or the fact her eyes weren't necessarily seeing anything. It was like she was blind but why would someone place a blind woman to guard an important location? There was just an aspect that set off alarms in my skull to avoid until further information is given.

Peering over at her a moment longer, I waited for her to cross one of the hanging lamps. When I could see her clearly I was tempted to cringe but steeled against it.

Her scleras were yellow, but red strings of red blood cells streamed in rivers from the pupil to the outer boundaries of the eye. It was a more severe version of bloodshot eyes. Her mouth seemed to be stitched shut though I couldn't fathom why. Nails were yellow, bitten or gone and she had splotches of hair on her scalp.

I don't know how I knew her eyes were yellow and red. I've never even _seen_ the colors before. Nonetheless, when I stared at her blank eyes, I just somehow _knew_ that those colors were it. I tried not to dwell on it for the sakes of the case. Instead, I focused on the girl and how she looked utterly lost.

It was like some twisted experiment gone wrong. Then again, wasn't that what Sherlock assumed The Sepia Order did?

 _"Reminds me of old times in Afghanistan, specifically the Faded Resistance,"_ I thought solemnly, thankful when the woman turned around to walk the other direction. _"But at least they didn't leave their experiments in this cursed torture."_

Shaking my head, I took a shaky breath, closed my eyes, and opened them. Pushing my worries and concerns to the back of my head, I attempted to shadow them so the ideal qualities could come through, particularly stealth and agility. Slowly my mind became clearer and my past remained as so.

By this time she was gone, back in the shadows to the area she guarded. The other male also had his back turned. This was my chance.

 _"It shouldn't take too much to knock out this bloke. Perhaps the usual military basics? No, probably not. Something quieter where it won't attract the woman."_ The tactic came to mind easily and bluntly: strangulation.

I grimaced at the method. I know several methods to knock someone out, but strangulation is normally a fool's proof way of obtaining it. It may be a tad difficult since he is taller than me. No doubt I will get some bruising and scrapes from his hands trying to claw at me.

A sigh escaped my lips. It was too late to go back. I agreed to this and I was already a few meters away at most. All for the bloody detective. Damn it.

No time to regret it now.

Crouching, I crept to the shadow the warehouse provided and slowly made my way to the man. When he stood still, I held my breath and counted to three before jumping behind him. Swinging my arm around his neck, I stuck his head in the crook of my elbow and wrapped my other hand around his mouth and nose to restrict noise and breathing. As we scuffled, he managed to kick me in the knee and I winced before fixing my hold.

Multiple scratches and more than enough bruises later he was unconscious. Dragging his body, I leaned him against the side of the warehouse in the shadows.

Testing my knee, I flinched. He had definitely done some damage to it. I was going to have to check it out after this. Right now wasn't the time to worry about my injuries. Leaning my weight on my other leg, I leaned against the building and prepared to turn around the corner.

Now for the female.

When I turned around, however, I came face to face with her. She must have been two or three meters away from my form. When had she heard me? Sure there was noise but it was so minimal that she shouldn't have been able to hear it.

Her eyes bore into my own with a dead expression while her mouth attempted to speak through her stitched lips. Something resembling a whisper left her lips, but I couldn't tell words from the air. It all sounded the same and she couldn't make it any more pronounced or louder.

When she looked at me, she saw I didn't understand and released a small sigh through her laced lips. She had given up conversing and brought out a Swiss army knife instead.

 _"Wonderful,"_ I thought sarcastically while slowly bringing my fists out in front of me. I was at a disadvantage. Hopefully, she wasn't too good with the blade. I highly doubted it when I judged the way she was holding it, but it was still a vain hope. Perhaps if I side step her first blow I can smack her wrist so she can drop it and go from there with-

Suddenly, the woman's eyes went wide. I watched her carefully, unsure on what just happened. Finally, her eyes rolled to the back of her head as she fell to the floor, Sherlock behind her with a wooden board in his hands.

"You did a mediocre job, John, but perhaps next time you should take note that since she is blind, as I am sure you noticed, her other senses will be significantly heightened. Taking out the female would have been the best choice of the two." Huffing at his criticism, I took the board from his hands and placed it against the warehouse as well.

"Yeah? I didn't see you trying to knock both of them out," I countered.

Sherlock shrugged, "I had more important matters to attend to. That being our entrance into this supposedly vacant building." His eyes fell on the tree once more and I followed his gaze to see one of the branches leading to a window. The glass had shattered long ago leaving a few jagged edges here and there and a perfect entrance to boot.

"Fine. I'll accept it this time, Sherlock. Only this time since you figured out a way to get us in. Now, what do we do from here?"

I could see the faint traces of a grin on the detective's face, "I was under the influence that you didn't wish to follow me in this disposition. What has changed your mind, doctor?"

I imitated his grin with more vigor, "Maybe I have found something interesting about your line of work. Maybe. Don't get your hopes up."

"Oh, of course not." Sherlock walked up to the tree and I trailed after. When we were at the trunk, I noticed that it wasn't too tall. I was certain that even I could have climbed it if necessary.

"You will stay here."

"I will what?" I breathed, disbelief in my eyes. Did he just say I was to stay here? No. Absolutely not. Not only was Sherlock injured, but he was a danger magnet. I didn't know this man long, but I knew enough to not trust him on his own. Sherlock seemed to follow my train of thought with a frown.

"I will be fine. I just need you to stay out here for now. If we both went in at the same time no doubt anyone in there would hear us. Also, the kick you sustained from that young man seems to be affecting your steps and one step is heavier from the other. Therefore, it is only logical that I go in. I will motion for you if I need you."

I couldn't believe it. "So I am supposed to stay out here?"

Sherlock was already climbing up the tree, "Didn't I make that clear? Oh, and I assumed you brought your pistol with you, correct?"

I nodded, wondering in my mind how he knew about it.

"If I motion for you, then I am in immediate need of your service. Be sure to have your pistol ready because I am sure we will need it." I looked down and shook my head, agitation inkling in slowly. After a second I glanced back up and saw Sherlock making his way across the branch. He was elegant and each step was never faulty.

"Why do I have this feeling that you would never do such a thing, Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned to me and grinned, "I said flat mates should know the worst of each other, did I not?" With that he hopped into the window and silence fell like a thick curtain.

Leaning against the tree the detective was climbing not too long ago, I released a sigh I never realized I had been holding.

 _"Look what you have gotten yourself into, John,"_ My morality chastised me, _"You are a doctor. A respected citizen and now, for the man who you think is your mate, you are rummaging the streets for criminals!"_

Yeah. Just for Sherlock Holmes.

That's a lie. Maybe it was my past beckoning the adrenaline antics or perhaps it was that this was definitely unorthodox to my everyday life; no matter the reason, I found this part of Sherlock's profession strangely thrilling and addicting. Damn this man to find something that would attract me so.

_"Well, he_ **is** _your mate."_

He might. He might be my mate.

I was still trying to understand that and I was finding it difficult without any help from someone of Iridescence value. Not to mention I haven't had the time to completely come to terms with it, this mating.

My mind was in a debate. Part of my wished for a mating since I have spent quite a bit looking for mine. It wanted to see color and all that nonsense the Iridescence seem to gloat about.

But at the same time, I didn't want him to be my mate. I didn't want that phrase to be hanging above every reason that I enjoyed this man's company, prat or not. He was definitely someone that I probably needed in my life, someone to define what I missed in my previous occupation, but for every reason I would give why, it would be countered with soul mating.

Which was absolutely absurd.

A shuffle in the distance brought me out of my contemplation with tense muscles and itching fingers. My gun felt heavier than lead in the back of my pockets. The atmosphere thickened with the sudden change in mood.

A few more noises followed and I found my eyes averting to every shadow around this tree. Taking a step back, I sunk into to midnight shade of the tree and tried to make as little noise as I could.

Gradually, the noises came to a stop. I knew somebody was there. Perhaps multiple people considering the varied direction I heard the shuffles in. They were waiting. Waiting for me to make my move; to make a mistake.

I was about to begin climbing up the tree to get a better view when a twig snapped behind me.

Pulling a one-eighty, I came face to face with a brute. I didn't have a chance to make a sound before something came down on my head. Everything went in circles before fading to black.


	9. Negative

A very distinct amount of pain on my wrists and ankles was the first to hit me when I awoke. It was like that of having pulled a muscle in your arm except perhaps more potent. Either way, it was definitely uncomfortable and more than a little seething of the skin.

The second aspect that came to my attention was the concussion I was probably suffering from. The big bloke probably plunged that object – whatever it was – on my head rather firmly to knock me out so completely. I would have been surprised if I _hadn't_ woken up with a grieving headache pulsing with my heart beat. The small tributary falling down the side of my head confirmed even more so. I was injured, probably more than a little disorderly in my senses, and definitely restricted onto some sort of object.

Quietly in the background, I could sense the pain in my knee with pulsing competence. I thought I would be left with a few bruises from the attack, but I might have sustained greater wounds than suspected. It's going to be absolutely lovely explaining this to Mary tomorrow morning.

If I even bother going to work. At this point, I wasn't certain what my situation was and if there even was a _certitude_ that I would leave these bonds intact and breathing.

Multiple emotions flitted through my mind like buzzing bees, each more aggravating than the last. I was annoyed because I was stronger than this and still managed to get caught and by a stealth attack at that. Disbelief trickled in afterward. I expected Sherlock to be here with me but I haven't heard him and I haven't opened my eyes yet to see if he was unconscious. That was a little miffing. Perhaps Sherlock managed to lie low and not get caught? For me, that seemed rather slim, but maybe, just maybe, he did have some good points in him.

He may possibly be more than a juvenile, egotistical detective who seems to always know more information than he probably should.

_Maybe._

That being said, I still haven't opened my eyes to see if he was here or not. I shouldn't praise the man for his skills if I don't know for sure if he has them.

The digression seeped away quickly, leaving me to ponder the last facet of my apparent detainee status.

Curiosity laced thickly with a sheen of apprehension fell like a curtain of foreboding consequences. What will happen to me now that I am clearly a hostage? Is there any way I can manipulate my situation for my beneficial usage? Those sort of questions poured into my head immediately with trepidation only enhancing the urgency. Remaining calm was easy on the outside, but inwardly I was beginning to worry.

Not just for myself, but for Sherlock. He was a magnet, a lure, which all the fish representing danger and disaster loved to fall for. What if he was in a worse situation than I was in?

Too many ifs and not enough certainties were beginning to cloud my mind and I pushed them aside with some difficulty. Now was not the time to react like a passive citizen. Now was the time to let my soldier side present itself to assess the situation before me.

That wasn't very difficult.

 _"Primarily, I should test my limitations. What I can and cannot move with no leeway about it,"_ I prioritized.

I moved a little, stretching my bones and muscles, but my movement was constrained. Something around my waist and torso was also securing me and keeping me from doing any movement. So I was definitely firmly bonded to the object, but how strong were these bonds? If they were rope perhaps I could try and fiddle with them.

 _"If only I was that lucky,"_ I thought sourly. _"Look at the mess you are in. Certainly luck is not on your side and I doubt it will ever be."_ Nonetheless, I still went ahead with hopeful, halfhearted thinking.

Testing my bonds, I shook my wrists a little and heard the clinking of chains. Metal. _Lovely._ I twisted my wrists slowly and with minuscule precision, but another bond – this one like rubber tubes – stopped me from performing anything. Letting my wrists relax, I gritted as the sensitive skin had the metal within contact once more. They rubbed harshly at my wrists and when I jerked a little at the sudden jab I realized my ankles were in much the same predicament.

Oh yes, luck was definitely not on my side.

_"Wonderful. Just wonderful. Look what you got yourself in John. This is what you get for chasing childish, over-eccentric detectives in the middle of the night."_

Yes. Over-eccentric and entirely reckless detectives that I will gladly haunt if I don't get out of here alive as I planned.

My eyes moved under my lids, wanting to see.

In all this time, I hadn't opened my eyes. I was preparing mentally for the worst for I have seen what The Sepia Order does and I wasn't sure if the same would occur to me. Would I gain the "yellow" scleras that they all have in common? I didn't even know what "yellow" was in my gray spectrum. For all I knew, the gray for someone's "blue" may be the actual "yellow". I'm completely vulnerable and it irritated me beyond belief. Would I become mentally damaged? Too many dependents and I felt anxiety course through my veins, sidling with the adrenaline.

"I know you are awake," the voice was clearly American. I quirked my lips a little in disgust at the tone. It was fascinated and too gleeful for one looking at a prisoner. When I opened my eyes, I was met with dark gray ones framed by unruly black hair and an almost mid-gray complexion like that of an overseas tan. His smile was almost maniacal and his clothing was even more absurd. Ripped trousers doused with various shades of black white and gray, shirt untucked on one side and uniform on the other, tie not even in a knot of any sort: he was a mess through and through.

"You know, you have some brains to actually be able to find this place. Very intelligent indeed. You also must have some sense of strength and stealth since you knocked out both of my experiments quickly and without alarm." He sighed this time, apparently perplexed. "And I worked on them so hard. Oh well, the next batch will surely be better."

He spoke of them like they were experiments on petri dishes and not people with lives and souls to match.

"The next batch?" I probed as I observed the spacious warehouse room.

In every corner were beds, except the mattresses had been removed and only the stiff structure was behind it. I assumed that that was what I was currently attached to.

Behind the crazed man was a row of chemical equipment, each one more complex than the previous machine next to it. Some held flasks that were bubbling with a liquid that kept changing hues of grey and black. Some of them appeared to be straining the previous liquid. They were all for some purpose that I couldn't decipher.

"The next batch of my Sepians of course!" The man cried loudly. He had this grin that screamed he had spent too long on one project that was fruitless. A long experiment with many fiascos and disappointments to show the effort. At least, that is what I assumed. It appeared to be the case. Too many failures and he seemed like he had snapped or was pretty close to it.

"What about the next batch?" I asked further, hoping for him to respond.

He did without hesitation, "Oh, I always need a strong one to lead the others and you, my kind sir, have proved to be an incomparable specimen! You will do nicely if I do say so myself." He snickered to himself and I felt some fear settle in. Just a little. Not enough to make it noticeable but it was definitely there.

"And if I don't comply?" I countered. Damn it. I couldn't have kept my mouth shut. Of course not. That wasn't me.

I wasn't one to follow readily. I was a leader at one point so following isn't my best suit. I engage the enemy, not succumb to their tortures like a begging fool. That was pointless and weak, all of the aspects I despised in whatever mission I portrayed whether rescue or guard.

That being said, I didn't know exactly how to lead myself out of here which made all my previous statements completely irrelevant. I didn't know how to escape. These chains were definitely sturdy and I can't summon some miraculous power to break them. Even if I did escape, the injuries I have would definitely leave me in worst for wear. Overall, I couldn't deliberate a plan that would be successful.

 _"Sherlock probably would,"_ I added internally, _"Then again, I have no clue where he is. He certainly isn't here with me. Hopefully, he didn't go get himself caught. Knowing his luck-"_ I paused my thoughts when I saw a flitting shadow behind the machines. Definitely humanoid. Narrowing my eyes, I glared at the spot in hopes to catch a glimpse of the individual.

For once, it seemed luck spared a glance in my direction. The person behind it popped up for a moment and I immediately recognized it.

I would have glowered him down if the extremist hadn't spoken up.

"Well, you don't have to comply. I'm going to do so with or without your consent, but if you prove to be difficult I do have those wonderful wires that are attached to you."

I strained my neck and saw multiple cords wrapped around my ankles and wrists along with a single wire attached to my heart and one to my neck. They seemed to be attached to some metal needle or some sort of conducting wire that was under my skin. Electrocution. Today is just getting better and better.

I glared at him as he smiled innocently, "Yes, well, I do have plenty of electricity in this place. Using some to… well, put you in a soporific state wouldn't be too damaging to my tests." He waved his hand dismissively. "But enough talk, let me give you a little taste of what I could do if you prove to annoy me." With that, he grabbed a board beside him that was decorated with switches and two lights, the darker looking one on. I assumed it was the off button. That meant the other was the…

Flicking his fingers, he flipped the switch and almost instantaneously a vivid shock coursed through me, burning through my clothing to my skin and along my nerves. A million little shocks bit through me like having pirahnas chomping at you from the extremities to the center. It was painful but not like taking a bullet to the shoulder – as I have done – or falling into a trench on accident. This was different and even worse. I clenched my teeth hard to avoid screaming but it wasn't easy when it felt like I had been attached to a battery on high voltage.

When I was on the verge of screaming, the electricity stopped. The man had flipped the switch but I could still feel every single tingle and vibration still reverberating across my skin. Little catalysts waltzed along my hands and feet, gradually and slowly crawling up to my knees and elbows. It was slow and draining. My fingertips were numb and I wasn't so sure if I could walk at the moment even if I wanted to.

"Those were only two switches," he added with a grin, "Now imagine if I flipped the switch on your heart. I'm giving you .01 amps. That's enough to kill a person. Even a tough guy like you!" I knew that. I've seen that. He didn't have to tell me twice.

Or shock me in this case.

Either way, retorting against him was definitely not the way to buy time in this case. I would have to appeal to him, keel to him so-to-speak. I wasn't too thrilled at all, but Sherlock needed time and I would give him that.

"Why… why are you doing this?" I huffed in between breathing. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sherlock peek his head up once more to nod at me. If I could, I would have flipped up a few non-descriptive fingers in his direction but I was bounded. Not to mention that would also reveal his location. I still couldn't stop the feeling of annoyance from flushing my mind. He was giving me his bloody approval! That git. Instead of nodding in my direction he should be helping me out of here!

I took a deep breath. Calm down Watson. He's probably got some genius plan to do just that. Certainly he isn't wasting time trying to figure out whatever chemical the man is brewing or even the purpose. Clearly he must be putting his and your safety first.

Obviously.

I chuckled softly, too low for the American to notice. Yeah, I highly doubt it. Sherlock didn't appear the type to actually put somebody's wellbeing before the case, including his own judging from our introductory meeting.

So I would have to wait for him to be ready. Until then, preventing any more damaging shocks are to be my top priority. Along with any other damage or alterations this mad man has set to make his "perfect soldier". I was to act the "Damsel in Distress".

I'm going to end up killing him myself when we get out of this.

"Why…" I tried again for the man clearly didn't hear me the first time, "Are you doing this?" I attempted to convey my voice over to him but all I got was a distant look.

"Hm?" The man questioned. He didn't hear my question.

Third times a charm.

"Why are you doing this?" I repeated, my voice a little stronger now. The small tremors that licked my skin weren't as painful as before.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" His voice became soft. His entire form changed, his laughter now low and sinister, "I'm trying to do you all a favor. I'm trying to restore color! I'm trying to restore _balance_."

"Balance?" I encouraged. Anything to keep this man talking.

"Freedom from mating! Freedom from a predetermined fate! Freedom. Doesn't that word dance across your tongue with a good flavor? It should for _that_ is what we are meant to have as human beings. As people of this world!"

I watched the man wearily. All the while, I vaguely noticed Sherlock off to the side seemingly pulling a few plugs here and there while following others. The man hadn't noticed. He was too into his own bravado to care.

Sherlock gave me a look to be quiet and I rolled my eyes. I hope he knows what he is doing.

Let me rephrase that: He better know what he is doing for he is the only hope I have for possibly getting out of these chains and wires.

"May I ask what amuses you so?" The voice beckoned me once more and I glanced at him, the fear from before gone and replaced with only an inkling of concern for Sherlock.

"Nothing at all. I just find it intriguing that you haven't explained how you plan to restore color. You have stated what you _want_ , not what you _have_."

The man paused before mumbling something, the words gradually getting louder, "What I have? What do I have? I have serum, the renouer teinte. It will restore color in the brightness it was!"

 _"More like a load of rubbish,"_ I wanted to mutter but bit my tongue hard. Experimentally looking in Sherlock's direction, I quirked my brow but he shook his head.

Sherlock motioned for me to continue asking questions as he followed a combination of cords to the back of the warehouse. I decided to question his motives later when I wasn't in danger. Hopefully soon.

"Any results?"

His eyes brightened, "Finally! A specimen taking interest in what their future will be! Yes, oh yes, we have had lots of progress. We have had people regain their yellows and reds but it seems to only be the sepia colors," he paused looking at me with a knowing expression, "Oh, but you don't know what those colors are, do you? You are your monochrome sight. Ah, but don't worry. You will soon. We also seem to have some physical alterations but nothing surgery can fix nowadays."

I abhorred the way he said that. He made it sound like being a Monochrome was completely pitiful even though I had no doubt he was one himself. How did he know what those colors were? "Yellow"? "Red"? Unless he did those... experiments onto himself, I fail to see how he knows more of the limited spectrum than I do.

But something more caught my attention.

I frowned, "We?"

The man nodded vigorously, "Yes! We. J.M is what he calls himself! He never shows himself it seems, but that is beside the point. He provides me funds. He is interested in my work. That's all I need to continue."

_J.M? An abbreviation no doubt. This American speaks of him fondly, like J.M. is his master, his leader._

"In fact, he would probably be interested profoundly in how you will react to the tests since you are so strong, mentally and physically! I can just see it now!" The man grabbed a syringe and slithered towards me, his eyes now brightly examining me like a new toy. "Color will splash lively into your vision and you will thank me. You will! You'll see!" He snickered and I cringed against the metal bed frame.

"Ah, I fear that that is where you have to stop, doctor."

With a loud buzz, the lights went out. The moonlight that poured in through the windows was the only source of lighting.

The American scientist nearly screeched, "What have you done?! It has taken me a month to prepare that serum! A month!"

"And it seems you will have to wait yet another. Now, Doctor Watson, how would you clarify this man? In your doctorate terms if you will? Genius? Creative?"

"Mad," I deadpanned as I waited for my eyes to adjust.

"Oh, do you truly think so? I think his methods are rather innovative."

"Of course you would," I sighed, rolling my eyes, "Nonetheless, can you pause your admiration to help me? As strong as you perceive me to be, I doubt I have the miraculous strength to suddenly rip these chains apart."

"All in due time, John."

After Sherlock said this, I suddenly realized the doctor that was previously moaning about preparations was now completely silent. Too silent.

"Sherlock," I called out.

"I know," he responded with no emotion. Almost like a one-eighty, his tone changed to one a twinge full of concern, "Doctor? I wouldn't do that if I were you. You don't know what that could do."

By this time my eyes adjusted and I peered around, trying to find Sherlock and the doctor. I spotted them in the moonlight, the doctor in the direct light (when had he moved?). A reflection caught my gaze and I realized he had the syringe in his hands, seemingly prepared to stick it in himself.

"You took away my only experiment. This is the last of the readily created serum. I can't use it on the specimen because he would turn on me. I don't want to risk such valuable research. No. No, using it on me would be best. This would definitely be best." With that he jabbed the syringe in his heart and plunged the serum.

Everything stilled. The wind was nonexistent. My breaths seemed all but vacant. I couldn't even see Sherlock breathing.

The next murmurs were quiet but they held a distinct amount of madness in its being.

"Color… _color_ …"

"Sherlock," I called again, quieter.

"Hush, John," the detective replied, inching towards me.

I wanted to tell him to hurry up, to either knock the man out or help me, but I knew the dire situation we were in. It wasn't something that could be easily dismissed.

The man in the moonlight stood straight. His posture was fixed. He was perfectly still.

Something was different. The aura around him. Iridescence had a white and the Discoloured had a black. This man's aura malformed constantly. It never remained the same. Black to white to grey and back. Always changing. Always some other shade of white and black. I had a feeling that if I could see color it would be that of a "rainbow" or all of the colors.

I felt something grip my wrist and a spark followed. Flinching automatically, I jerked my wrist from his grasps before relaxing, allowing him to take the chains I assumed he was trying to break. Sherlock paused for a moment, though (hesitance?) I tried to look at him but he was in my blind spot. All I could see was the brief flickers of a silhouette or the spark of our hands brushing every so often.

The mad man was humming in the distance as Sherlock fiddled with the confinements.

A second later I heard the chains snap and one of my wrists were free. A minute more and I was free from all my bonds. I plucked a few stray wires off of me and took a step.

Ah, tried to. I tried to take a step.

My knees buckled immediately. I probably would have landed on my face had Sherlock not caught me, throwing my arm over his neck. Thanking him silently, I struggled to balance my weight on the aching, shocked ankles and injured knee.

"Careful, John. We wouldn't want to have the brute come over here, now would we?"

I nodded, keeping my lips in a thin line to not make the pain I was in known. That wouldn't help our situation. I didn't even know if the American wanted to kill us or experiment on us.

 _"Color!"_ The man cried once more, dancing around a little, "Oh, this is glorious!"

"Sherlock," I warned, "Surely we cannot leave him here?"

Sherlock pursed his lips before sighing, "I suppose not. But I can't have you here either since you are certainly injured and might have a few organs and nerves shocked from the previous spark. It would end up ruining any plan I make with taking your dependence into the equation. If only you had kept you tongue still, you probably would have avoided the shock."

 _"Which one?"_ I thought with a roll of my eyes, _"The mating one or the electricity? Both were rather painful so I can't tell the difference in what you mean."_

But I said nothing.

"Maybe we should-" I started but was cut off swiftly with the outcry of the entranced man.

"Oh! Boys, perhaps you should stop bickering over my debacle. I don't think I'm going to linger and test on you now so you can leave if you want. I could kill you, but who knows how long these brilliant hues will last! You have places to be, I know I have places to be! J.M. will certainly be pleased with this!" The man swung around one of the beams holding the warehouse up before hopping up a little ledge to the open window Sherlock came through earlier.

"I suppose it is thanks to you that my success was finally achieved! So for that, you will definitely not die. That being said, you won't die from _my_ hands. I do have a few stray failed Sepians, but that is for you to discover. They might have all left by this point. Who knows?" With a giggle, he hopped down and was gone. I cursed under my breath while Sherlock stared after him thoughtfully.

"J.M." He murmured pensively. "He appears to be on everyone's lips. Even the deceased."

"Excuse me?" I turned to him and he shook his head.

"Another time, John. For now, we should get out of here and preferably back to the flat." It was almost a robotic response. Like he was trying to avoid the topic. I didn't try to breach it now. That would involve energy that was beginning to wane.

No, I'll wait until I am stronger and then I'll interrogate him. I'm sure he realizes how many bloody questions he owes me answers to. Too many.

Sherlock turned and led us into the shadows. I was confused where he was leading us until he reached out and gripped something. A moment later a door opened and light from the outside shown in like a sudden reflection. I blinked it away and let Sherlock guide me.

Sparks and shivers danced across my skin and nerves. My heart and brain was crying out that my mate was right here next to me. They were telling me that I was only postponing this. It was painful mentally and physically. I was suffering alone.

"John?" I peered up but Sherlock was looking around, his head facing the direction we came from. I could see from the faint lighting that his jaw was tense as well as his muscles. From what I observed, that was one of the main tell-tale signs that he was thinking.

"Yes?" I huffed.

He paused. "Nothing. Forget I ever said anything."

I laughed though it was strained. "Nothing never pertains to you from what I have come to understand Sherlock. Besides, why would I forget something you said when it is more than likely important?" Sherlock never replied and the adrenaline was ebbing off so I didn't feel like bickering.

On the way back to the flat I considered what that man said. It was a mixture of confusion, exhaustion, and utter disbelief, but I still attempted to remember. I knew that once morning came I would never believe I had gone through this. I would never believe that Sherlock does this for a living nonetheless.

J.M. A name but for who does it belong to?

And why does it seem like that is a name I should be wary of? Even more than the color-crazed scientist?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to explain a few things here since it's a little necessary:
> 
> The Sepia Order - They want to restore color by means of scientific experimentation. Many of their tests have, however, been failures resulting in the subjects to have yellow scleras, yellowed nails, multiple mental or sensual issues, and, if they still have their sight, a sepia hue instead of monochrome.
> 
> The American Scientist - He does show up later. No, he's not some random character that is slightly on the crazy side. His name isn't mentioned here for good reason. 
> 
> The other Sepians mentioned but never seen in this chapter - If you must know, all Sepians are not brain dead zombies. They are still human with hearts and souls. They are still them, but they look different. That being said, they run away the first chance they get except for the two that John and Sherlock knocked out.
> 
> Monochrome - Only see black, white, and gray. No soul mate.  
> Iridescent - All colors. Found soul mate.  
> Discoloured - Vision faced back to Monochrome. Mate died. Often depressed.  
> Sombres - Don't have a mate at all. Only Monochrome vision. Rare.  
> Pastel - can only see three colors max. Change on a daily basis. Comes with a weak bond like an acquaintance or less  
> Opalescent - Can't see all of the spectrum due to a difficult bond but they can see most of the colors. Change on a daily basis and often leaves two or three colors in Monochrome when they are not credible that day.
> 
> There we go. I'll add more later.


	10. Chintzy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock and I walked into the flat, I realized that I could count on Mrs. Hudson being one thing to me for sure. A mother hen.

When Sherlock and I walked into the flat, I realized that I could count on Mrs. Hudson being one thing to me for sure. A mother hen.

"Sherlock! Oh goodness, John, dear, are you alright?" Mrs. Hudson walked circles around us, patting my back and wagging a finger at Sherlock. She looked torn between scolding us and fretting over our wellbeing. If she had been a bird, her feathers would be ruffled up to the best of their capability, possibly purposefully thumping Sherlock in the head a few times.

And to her, he probably deserved it.

I would have laughed at the scene if it wasn't for the increasing exhaustion and the throbbing pain. My feet were dragging and my eyelids were growing heavier with each syllable the two uttered around me. I knew I had to check my injuries, take a shower, and force something down, but sleeping sounded easier to perform. I didn't think I could do half the objectives I wanted to do correctly without doing something wrong like putting salt in coffee or attempting to pour said coffee and having the liquid flowing well over the brim of the mug.

Perhaps I can push off checking my injuries until tomorrow morning. Along with eating and showering and every other decency. As disgusting as that probably sounds, that was one of the perks I supposed I had when living with a man who I have expected to come home one evening covered in blood and holding a spear to boot.

Breaking away from Sherlock's side, I hobbled over to the stairs and climbed up them one at a time, cringing at every little ache and jab of pain that shot through the ankle or sole. I was beginning to hate stairs with each little misstep or shuffle. My feet didn't want to even elevate. Sliding them horizontally was hard enough as is. I had a feeling if I attempted to raise them any higher than necessary that they would thump against the wood and I would tumble down.

Not only would that be utterly embarrassing, but I had an inkling of a feeling that I probably wouldn't even try getting up from that position.

"Sherlock! Look at him! What did you do?" Her voice rose an octave when I cursed after accidentally kicking the bottom of a step and stumbling.

I heard Sherlock quickly hush the landlady, "He's just tired, Mrs. Hudson. Nothing a good night's rest won't fix, right John?" He looked at me expectantly and I glared at him. I was tempted to fall and show my soot-crusted wrists and ankles along with my worrisome knee, but I refrained from doing so just barely. It was an intriguing offer but, again, I probably would not get off the floor after I would fall and Sherlock probably wouldn't help me either.

So, another idea out the window due to exhaustion and injury. Reminded me a fraction of Afghanistan.

"Yes," I spoke, acid dripping from my voice, "Certainly after I sleep all of this will be cured. Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson. Tomorrow I will be perfectly fine." She looked at me, not wanting to believe me, but then sighed in defeat.

"Fine. Do you two need anything? Tea? Stew?"

"No," Sherlock and I said in unison and we looked at each other for a moment before looking away. The landlady giggled to herself and walked away, the soft click of a door closing following her.

Sherlock was by my side a minute later, taking my arm and leveling the amount of weight I would have to carry. I thanked him with a grunt and allowed him to aid me in my trek up the treacherous stairway.

Once inside the flat, Sherlock led me to a door in the kitchen. Opening it, there was a bedroom. It looked barely used, a double-bed with a few end tables and a desk. I suspected this might have been Sherlock's room, but he didn't appear to ever use it. Did he ever sleep?

"This, will be your room. You should rest. You do expect to go to work tomorrow, do you not?" he murmured, letting go of me so I could sit on the mattress.

"That was the plan though it depends on how my injuries are tomorrow. I didn't expect to get electrocuted or a blasted knee from the event."

"Oh, stop being dramatic," Sherlock rolled his eyes, "You didn't get electrocuted. That would involve your entire body feeling the voltage given and a result of incapacitation or fatality, which you did not suffer from. Also, as for that knee, that was your fault. You should have judged the male with better assessments before the strangulation."

 _"Of course it was my fault. It could never ever be his even though he got me into this mess,"_ I thought with a tinge of irritation.

 _"Which you voluntarily followed,"_ a little voice added. Sadly, that was the more rational and less childish side of my thoughts. It was right. I had a choice and I decided to chase the adrenaline I didn't know I missed until then.

I gnashed my teeth, but not a second later a sigh slipped through. No, I didn't want to fight with this man tonight. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow morning or when – if – I get back from work, but not now. I feared that I would never rest my eyes if I engaged an argument with Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective.

"Yes, yes, Sherlock. Now, while I would love to bicker about how my motives were what you should do and no one could predict the movements of every human being, I am tired. I'm sleeping. End of story."

It might have been my sight, but I thought I caught a glimpse of disappointment. Even though that probably should have sparked some sense of curiosity, it seemed the dark circles I spotted under his lids were something more to be concerned of.

Sherlock turned to leave the room, but I stopped him, "Sherlock."

He didn't groan, but he might as well have from the expression that was plastered on his face, "Hm?"

I scrutinized his face some more and felt a smirk wanting to tug at my tired lips out of sheer proudness. I knew it. He was tired. For some reason, spotting that in my exhausted haze made it all the more pleasing to see.

Sherlock had a few key signs that he was tired beyond what he would admit. The bags under his eyes and the way he appears to sway a little testified against his stubbornness. The doctor in me wished to chide the man for not taking care of his body. No doubt he hasn't slept for the past few days. Knowing him, he probably finds sleep boring.

However, I could not say that I didn't feel a smidgeon of surprise with how he was able to last so long with his meticulous mindset and even more complex dynamics. It was a mystery and it definitely spurred a sense of awe.

But I didn't want to fuel this habit. It was unhealthy and he was already underweight as is! Adding a sleep deprivation (insomnia?) antic with that and he might as well be a machine.

"Sleep, please." I looked at him, a little surprised with myself. He seemed so as well but still pursed his lips. Of course. I didn't expect him to give in so easily. That would be too simple for him and definitely concerning for me.

"I'd rather not. Sleep is just a way for my poor excuse of a functioning vessel to regenerate its incapability with more vigor. I'd rather drink a cuppa than take part in slumber. Such a boring way to waste the limited hours of the day."

"It's just sleep." I laid down on the mattress to make a point and he gave me a look. He didn't see the value in what I was proposing and probably thought I didn't understand where he was coming from. Oh, I knew where he was coming from, but I found it completely irrational and a wonderfully painful way into a quick grave.

"Yes, but it is also a way to get nothing done that is remotely productive," he countered smoothly. "I have other methods that are more practical and beneficial to my time than closing my eyes for some "well needed rest"."

I sighed, "Sherlock. You do know you are lying to a bloody doctor, correct? I can see all the symptoms-"

"Symptoms," he scoffed in dismay.

"-that you are tired and no matter how much you deny it, it isn't going to disappear just by wishing so. Just sleep for God's sake. Afterwards you can go on whatever rant suits your fancy about how sleep is apparently a hindrance in all that is dynamic and constructive to your various needs."

The detective looked torn between complaining more over the indecency of him partaking in sleep and between him not being tired. His eyes scanned the room from what I could tell and I saw them shine a little when he responded.

"And where shall I sleep?"

I glanced around with half-glazed eyes much as he did not seconds before. I thought of the couch as well but then remembered it was full of boxes with all kinds of chemical equipment. That only left the bed.

Wonderful.

"Here." I scooted over and motioned for him. Slumping and grumbling about how this was completely pointless, Sherlock sat down on the other side of the bed. He looked like he was waiting for me to pass out. With a glare from myself and a huff from him, he reluctantly laid down on the mattress and looked at the ceiling. Boredom could have been written in the air for all that he was giving it attention for.

"Happy?" he prompted with annoyance and a tinge of fatigue. I grinned despite my own annoyance on having to suffer any sparks if he made contact with me.

"Very. Now sleep. I'm very stubborn, Sherlock. I won't pass out until I see your chest rising and falling rhythmically." He glanced at me to see if I was being serious and then sighed when he saw that I was.

"I… suppose I could organize my mind palace as I sleep," he muttered, turning over to face away from me. His back was to me and I rolled my eyes, adjusting the comforter to cover him. Despite the fact we were both in our clothing still, it didn't seem to bother us.

That was good because I feared things would get very awkward very quickly if either one of us had anything off. Ah, no. Sherlock probably wouldn't but I sure as hell would. He probably would just examine me like some stupid science experiment!

Let's just say sleep came quickly and the morning even more so.

Grumbling against the light, I opened my eyes. For a moment, I was unsure where I was and I grew tense. I was not in my old bedroom at Harry's. Bloody hell, I wasn't even in the same house as Harry and Clara. Where was I then? Did I drink too much and accidentally came home with a woman? Doubtful.

Scenarios and objectives rolled through my rejuvenating mind as I woke up. Words and phrases from kidnapping to being wasted. Once my rationality woke up, so did my actual sense. Soon after, it came flooding back in along with last night's events. My knee was in pain, pulsing and rejecting any movement involving twisting or rotating, and my wrists and ankles were thoroughly bruised and scorched from the electricity. A few scratches here and there were spotted on my arms and legs but that was probably from the scuffle with the two poorly-trained guards.

I moved my hand to wake Sherlock but I found his side cold. He had been awake for a while then. Fumbling a bit more to get the covers off of me, I heard something scrape the comforter and found a note. It was folded with "John" written in messy scripture on the front.

"Sherlock…" I groaned. Really. I knew I wasn't the only one who suffered injuries. I knew this for a fact. He didn't even let me check them. God that man. I swear he will be the death of me.

The notes contents were simple and to the point although I couldn't decipher some of his words at first. It was almost worse than the doctor scrawl I use for prescriptions.

_"John, I will be gone for most of the day and possibly the evening. I'm sure you are well aware of my abhorrence of boredom and a case has come to my attention. Berate me over my injuries and such when I return. Sherlock."_

Crumbling it into a ball, I threw it into the waste basket and got up. Every part of me was sore from the strenuous work I have not placed on my bones and muscles since Afghanistan.

I stripped out of my old clothes and hopped into the shower, enjoying the warm water cascading down my skin and washing away last night's evidence. Well, except for the injuries of course. All the knots in my muscles fell away like paint on a window.

When I got out, I observed my injuries more carefully, not amused with what little I did sustain.

The scratches were minuscule. It seemed at one point they did somehow bleed, but they were already beginning to scab over and heal. Every other part of me was worse for wear, so-to-speak. My wrists, ankles, and abdomen was painted in dark splotches of grey and some black. I was heavily bruised and any contact with the skin made me gasp and grip whatever ledge I could, nausea quickly following.

My knee was a different story although I was a little cautious of the injury altogether. The kick didn't tear a ligament or muscle though there was certainly a good amount of swelling and discoloration around the knee cap. Testing it slowly, I attempted to kneel and pain flourished almost instantly. I straightened it out again.

Perhaps I'll have Mary look at it. Tell her I fell down the stairs.

…Like she would believe me. She's observant. No doubt she would notice everything else with it that I didn't want her to see.

Sighing, I got ready for work and made my way down the stairs. Each step caused a jolt of pain in my knee and I would breathe in quickly. I was grateful for Mrs. Hudson not being in the lobby or she would probably fret over it and keep me home. I smiled at the thought and shook my head. Landlady? No she was more like a surrogate mother.

Much better than my own.

I hailed a cab and prepared myself for when I got to work. Most of the building consisted of stairs and the lifts were in the back of the building itself. I would be on this knee all day and I knew that that wasn't the best thing for it right now. The bruises would definitely cause problems, but I could play them off. It wasn't easy to pretend nothing was wrong when anything besides a limp was painful. As it is, I shouldn't be testing it. If I do anything sudden the ligament would rip and I would be in even more pain than this. Hell, I wouldn't even be able to _move_.

And I would probably be murdered by Mary's chastise and heated glares.

The hospital was already bustling with life when I arrived. Speak of the devil and he will appear as they say. Almost instantly Mary was at my side with the clipboard of my patients. I was about to thank her when she grabbed my wrist. I flinched and she scrutinized me, pulling down the long sleeve shirt under the scrubs to view my bruised skin.

She gasped, her grip tightening.

"John…" she began but I cut her off.

"Later. I'll explain later. It's a long story." Shaking my wrist away from her handle, I grabbed the clipboard and made my way to the stairs, dreading going up their steep steps.

"John? Is something the matter with your knee?"

I cursed, "Like I said, a long story. I'll tell you over lunch." Probably not. I didn't want her to know that I went on some escapade with a dangerous detective. She would probably hang him by his neck or shoot him. Or both.

I flipped the pages, counting 4 patients today, and sighed.

Today was going to be a long day.

And I was already missing the thrill of the case Sherlock introduced me to.

I was in debate whether I should damn him to the bottomless pits of Hell or thank him for finally introducing something interesting in my life.


	11. Harmonious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, restating things I pointed out on FF.net.
> 
> These next few chapters until 12 or 13 are more so plot chapters to fill in the color understanding between Sherlock and John. Feelings, relationships, and all that nonsense I don't necessarily understand.

I was dismissing my last patient when Mary knocked on my door.

"Come in," I replied automatically, flipping the papers of the last patient behind the clip to sign the last of the needed signatures. It was the usual: a pain medication that would make having no color easier to bear or a drug to drown out the fact that they have given up their mate. Sighing against the papers and glaring at the assessments of _depression_ and _mentally unstable_ of each paper I signed, I completely forgot about Mary entering my room.

Or even the promise I made her of telling her my "long story".

She tapped me on my shoulder and I jumped, resisting the habitual urge to immediately break into a combat stance or even settle the first move. It was Mary, not some Afghan vigilante. I was in a hospital, not a camp in the middle of the arid. Telling myself this was becoming a mantra that I half expected would conjure some message telling me I was dreaming and I was still there.

Of course, that would never happen. I hope not anyhow.

"John?" I blinked and Mary was in front of me, worry and annoyance on her face. I didn't know if it was because of me or due to an unacceptable patient or health care worker. Considering she was glaring at me pointedly and then my injuries from last night, I assumed it was myself.

She was probably annoyed that I didn't tell her what happened during lunch like I promised. It seemed a patient took longer than expected and I missed it. It wasn't like I was trying to avoid the topic. That would hint at the fear which I clearly am not feeling while being scrutinized by this very motherly woman.

Involuntarily, my hand rubbed against my knee, trying to smother the pain that pulsed through each heartbeat. Mary caught it and rose her brow in my direction.

"Well?" She asked with a stern voice. "What happened? Was it that man from earlier? Did he get you hurt? Wait, did he hurt _you_? I swear I will-"

"Mary!" I interrupted. She was always like this when she was trying to figure certain things on her own. She jumped to conclusions too quickly and rarely listened to the input of the actual individual she thinks she is protecting. "It wasn't his fault. Ah, well, never mind. I would be lying then. I suppose in some roundabout way it _was_ his doing that I even got these, but he was not the one responsible for inflicting them. That would be myself and before you even began to slate me on how I should know better, let me just say that I knew what I was doing when I followed that man. I knew I would be entering danger and despite my "passive" nature now, I do not regret it."

Mary was speechless, but not at all surprised. She looked exhausted and worried. After a moment, a breath escaped her lips slowly, the tension in the room finally rising and shook her head.

"Fine. I won't say anything about it. But let me just say that I don't think that man you are following is a good influence on you. Mate or not." She led me back to the cot where the previous patient was and stripped the thin paper off of it, throwing it along with her gloves into the waste bin. Snapping on new gloves and placing a new coat of paper on the cot, she forced me to sit.

I was about to protest, but one glare made my choke my words down forcefully.

"Let me see it."

I stared at her like I didn't know what she was talking about but then rationality and reasonability interfered and I rolled up my scrubs to reveal my very swollen and discolored knee. Mary tightened her lips into a thin line and glared at me. I met her gaze steadily.

"And what, may I ask, did you do to get this? This isn't a simple injury, John. It's not severe either, but you have clearly ignored all procedure to come and get this checked immediately and now look at it. It's swollen and I doubt it will heal properly knowing the stress you probably placed on it." She huffed and placed her hands on her hips, glaring at me. She wanted an answer and I owed her one I suppose.

I considered what I was going to tell her. I couldn't say that I was fighting a bloke to get into a warehouse. God only knows how she would react to that. I wouldn't lie to her, but perhaps telling her the whole truth wouldn't be the best either.

"A bloke managed to kick me in the knee," I stated simply. It was a little too simple, too vague. Mary didn't seem pleased with the answer either for her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Kneeling in front of my knee, she stretched it out and carefully prodded it with skilled hands. Remembered how I stated I only knew enough proficient doctors who knew how to suture correctly on one hand? Mary was one of them which was a mystery since she has never had to do any of the line of that line of work in her zones. I never questioned it and didn't pursue it now in mild concern that it would backfire with a question.

"Why did this man kick you, hm?"

I pursed my lips, contemplating how to pursue with this, "I may have bumped into him on accident. I didn't think much of it, but he appeared really offended by such acts. He was a little odd considering, though." Truth hidden with a veil of lies. Sherlock would be oh so proud of me.

Mary hummed in response, shaking her head while placing her index finger and thumb on the sides of my knee cap and moving it. I flinched violently in response and she nodded.

"I haven't the slightest idea just how this man kicked you, but it seems like he may have dislocated you patella. I'm amazed you were able to walk on it this long. Weren't you in pain from the beginning?" Mary questioned and I nodded.

"I assumed it was just bruised, but your theory makes some sense."

Mary grinned at me, "Of course it makes sense. I am a doctor you know."

"A doctor in the Sanctuary and Coping Zones," I countered though I chuckled nonetheless.

"Oh shush it you," she scolded before dropping the humor, "I'm going to set it. It's going to be quick since it wasn't a full dislocation, but nonetheless it will hurt."

"Mary, I do know what a dislocation is and how it is to be fixed. You know this better than most I would think." I rolled my eyes but still steadied myself and started taking deep breaths.

Scoffing at me, she shook her head before jerking her hands. A distinct pop occurred followed by pain emanating from the base of the injury. I clenched my teeth but it quickly fell away to mild throbs and I found it distinctively easier to bend and twist.

"Thank you," I spoke, getting of the cot. "I really should be going though. As is, I have stayed here a little longer than I expected." I sighed, knowing that Sherlock probably wouldn't be home. No doubt he is out chasing some other bloke from another mysterious organization that I have not known of. Even thinking of the chase was making me envious of the man, along with the borderline concern following it.

 _Danger prone. Accident magnet. A bloody idiot._ All of these followed after him. He was a complete fool sometimes, even more oblivious than he claims me to be, but he would never admit or see that. That would deplete him of his pride and god forbid he actually do that.

While rustling my hair in thought of the bothersome detective, I reached out for the door handle. When I was about to grasp it, it opened on its own. I jumped back, fully aware that it couldn't be a doctor since no one knocked as procedure went.

That shock plummeted to irritation as I gazed at Sherlock. He didn't look a twinge out of breath, but every part of him expressed his chase. The scarf around his neck wrapped uncomfortably across his neck from the wind and even his Belstaff coat was off its usual meticulous posture. His face and body, physically, however, was perfectly fine. His face wasn't darkened from the activity and even his breathing was normal.

"John," he nodded to Mary next to me before grabbing me by the forearm (the spark accompanying it being a jolt to my system) and pulling me out of the room. I gave a quick wave to Mary and followed him. My knee was throbbing under the sudden exertion, but I ignored it. I was able to walk on it. That was good enough for me, even if it shot up a faint pulse of pain with each step. 

When we were on the first floor, I ripped my arm from his grip and stopped him. He gave me a look of exasperation but I shook, my head.

"I would love to follow you on your endeavors, Sherlock, but I was under the impression that you would be gone until the evening."

"As I was. Have you not checked the time, yet?" I followed what he said and checked the time on my phone, surprised when it read 8:56 pm. I looked up and Sherlock was texting someone. It was quick and I caught the last glimpse of S.H. on his phone when he sent it and put his phone away.

"As I was saying before, I require your services."

"Another case?" I asked and he nodded.

"Yes, another case though certainly by the same man that we encountered last night. Apparently he didn't go to J.M. as planned, or if he did this anonymous individual is closer than expected. Much closer."

"That still doesn't explain why you need me," I reminded and he sighed and started walking. I took this as his clue to get moving and quickly matched his step as he spoke.

"Murder. I need you to see a murder."

"A _murder_?" I cried and then regained my composure. "A murder of whom? Also, I am a clinical doctor, not a mortician. I cannot secure a valid description-"

"But," he interrupted, unaware of my glare, "You were an army doctor before this as you love to point out it appears. That being said, I am sure you have seen plenty of blood and murders in your vocation. It would be infrequent if you hadn't seen such ordeals occur and quite the lie, wouldn't you say?"

Opening the door, he held it to me as I walked out, waving at all the curious nurses and doctors following us.

"So, John, saying you are only a simple clinical doctor would be like saying that compositions from Bach or Beethoven were just pressing a few little keys. You are certainly fit for diagnosing bodies. You have seen numerous bodies from common bullet wounds to suicides. Do you not miss the rush it gives to be at the front of these corpses and being able to tell what happened to them?"

I kept silent and hailed a cab. Ignoring that his hand slid from my forearm to my wrist.

"Don't you miss knowing what happened to them? Knowing why their blood stopped in their veins? No, wait, you are not like that, are you John? You like to know who did it to them and replace justice, don't you?"

I thinned my lips and traced the roads for the familiar black cabs, spotting one in the distance.

Sherlock chuckled and I broke my concentration with the street to meet him in the eye. What was amusing to him now? I certainly wasn't amused with how accurate he was being. Definitely not. Impressed? Maybe. But definitely not _amused_.

"What?" A cab pulled up to the curb soon after my reply and the driver motioned for us to enter.

"You didn't have to say a word for me to be certain of my assumptions. Your actions revealed everything. First of all, ever since I have mentioned this to you, you have not visibly denied it or even turned back to go inside. You haven't abandoned my approach or even volunteered to change it. You miss it John. I can tell. I haven't the faintest idea why you would try to mask such fancies in front of a person of my standard or even of my occupation."

With that, he stepped into the cab. I stood there for a moment, thinking over what he said. Annoyance, irritation, and utter fascination overwhelmed me. To think, this man was going to be my mate. To think that such a bloke would actually suit my standards.

It… didn't seem so far off now.

But neither were his remarks.

"Damn it," I cursed, giving a heavy sigh and releasing a smile before entering the cab.


	12. Dimmed

I recognized the man Sherlock was going to have me meet even before the detective could utter a word. Mostly due to my profession, but partially since he was the one man who seemed to actually show interest in helping those I deemed needed it. He held a moral mind compared to the others who dismissed my words like some annoying banter. He definitely left a mark in my book and I smiled once I recognized the man

"Lestrade!" I shouted and the man with disheveled hair and more than a weeks' worth of stubble turned to look at me with raised brows. They rose even further once they took in the voice to my face. A smile followed, but it was one of complete surprise. That is until he saw the detective. Then he rolled his eyes before making his way over to me. All surprise left his features by that point.

"Doctor Watson, nice seeing you, mate. Haven't spoken to you since the last Translucence ordeal you brought to my attention. How's the hospital these days?" He shook my hand firmly before resting it against his side.

I shrugged, "The usual. If it's not some drug attack, it's always something to do with the Violent Vicinity. We have had a few cases with unstable Discoloured and Sombres but nothing remarkable I'll admit." The only truly interesting thing that happened since my last intervention with Lestrade was meeting Sherlock Holmes in the ER along with his posh excuse of a brother who I haven't heard from since the information he left me.

Speaking of which, I should probably burn that when I get home. I didn't have the chance to and then last night I was in a state of disarray mixed with restraint. I don't believe in Mycroft's motives to keep this from Sherlock, but I guess it is for his own good in some sort of way I cannot comprehend at the moment.

If Sherlock spotted that, he would lose trust in me and I didn't want to lose that. Not as his newly acquainted friend and possible mate.

Lestrade nodded, "I can relate. Is that why you have been chasing this reckless kid here?" He jabbed his thumb over to Sherlock and the man in question scoffed, grumbling about not being a kid or the other.

I laughed, "Actually he found me and I seemed to have found my path mingling with his. I suppose it's too late to leave now considering I'm sharing a flat with him."

Lestrade seemed more surprised with the flat than anything, "Oh? So he's actually allowing someone to live with him? That's a first. When I first knew him, he would live in all these places alone since he said he couldn't bear the company of any person he ever met. You must be something special-"

"That's enough Lestrade." I glanced at Sherlock's face and wanted to smirk when his face seemed tinted just a twinge darker. That was one of the pluses of Monochromism. You could easily tell when a comment affects someone which, if it wasn't directed at you, made it all the more amusing. You don't have to rely on color. Although, seeing his pale complexion turn red probably wouldn't be too bad either. "The murder, if you will. I would rather see it before Anderson intervenes and destroys everything of worth."

The detective inspector chuckled but didn't let Sherlock pass as easily as I thought, "And who will you have diagnose the body if Anderson isn't allowed?"

"You were talking to him a few seconds ago. Do I need to state it any further?"

Lestrade turned to look at me then to him before mulling over the same issue I had when I met Sherlock: morality or curiosity.

Curiosity won, as it always seemed to, and Lestrade moved aside, leading the way to the murder. Sherlock smiled grimly though I could see that distinct glint in his eye. He was fascinated with the murder. Or any murder perhaps. Either way, I didn't know if it was worrying or… intriguing?

"The victim is a woman, went by the name Florence Gale. She was of age 34 and according to Iridescence, she was definitely a Monochrome. They also clarified she wasn't a Sombre or Discoloured. The murder weapon is like all the others. Suicide." Once we reached the entry room, Lestrade handed me a white scrub to wear over my clothing and I slipped it on effortlessly before following them into the living room where a vial full of white and grey splattered pills laid strewn next to a corpse.

"I highly doubt suicide is the cause of death, Lestrade. It's amusing to realize that even though centuries have passed with your sort of occupation and you still like to assume the easiest conclusion is the right one. How predictable." Lestrade bristled a little, but I saw it fizzle away quickly. He was used to this.

Well, he did know Sherlock longer than I did. I suppose I would react the same if I were in his shoes.

I slipped my gloves on and patted a mask into the pockets of my scrubs before walking over to the inspector.

He glanced at me and nodded me forward, "Go ahead, doctor. I need him and if he needs you to do his work, I have no say against that. Just know that I give you both five minutes to relay whatever you find. After that, I will have to lead you off the scene."

"More than enough time," Sherlock murmured but was already entranced with the murder, looking under the corpse's nails and at her hair. He was analyzing anything and everything and I would give anything to see how his mind worked. It was amazing. Extraordinary.

Gears roaming through his skull like clockwork. Each thought and rambling accusation scrolling through the machine like some sort of generator. Fascinating.

I shook myself out of my stupor. Get it together John. You are not here to marvel at Sherlock. You are here to figure out how this person died and who might have done it. Not this soul mating business that you never even showed interest in before this man. Actually, why should you change? It's not like he has shown any visible sense of acknowledging you as such. Why start now?

I winced at the tension placed on my knees but knelt before the body and begin to check for discolorations and anything out of the ordinary.

A smile fell on my lips triumphantly even though my pride was over the murder cause of a dead woman.

It only took me a moment to see what the cause was, "Potassium Cyanide poisoning."

Lestrade took out his notepad and a pen, clicking the end, "Oh? How so if you don't mind me asking, doctor."

"Not at all. This person has been exposed to cyanide over a long period of time from the looks of it and the pills only quickened it towards the end. The skin is red from the chemicals not allowing oxygen to get to the cells. When I neared the individual, their breath, although almost undetectable, had a distinct bitter smell to it which seemed to accompany the foam that is protruding from the mouth. That mixed in with the clear erratic motions stressed on the body and the pills following suit, I would diagnose that this was due to cyanide poisoning." When I looked up, I glanced at Sherlock and then at Lestrade. Sherlock was grinning to himself while Lestrade was surprised but in an impressed way.

I did well. That's good. I suppose it is all thanks to the military for that. I have seen plenty of people use these pills when we have to take the more guilty ones into interrogation. I have known men who had to use them themselves. Overall, I knew the symptoms of a common cyanide pill and the knowledge that this was now being used as common suicide – or murder – tactics did not settle well.

"Can you tell if it was murder or suicide, John?" Sherlock questioned and I shook my head. "Ah, well I suppose you did well despite the fact that you have much to learn." He probably meant it as a compliment but I found it bitter-sweet. Mocking my knowledge but at the same time impressed by it. That detective. He had a way with words that seemed to cause confliction. He probably did it on purpose.

"Did the Iridescence clarify if the victim was depressed in any manner?" Sherlock asked the inspector and Lestrade replied a negative. Nodding to himself, Sherlock stood.

"Any color aspects I should be aware of?"

"None except for the common ones expressed in the most recent murder spree," the inspector responded curtly.

Sherlock smirked, "Oh this is brilliant then! Absolutely grand! This murder has only gotten more interesting! Ah I love a good murder. A serial killer at that. Always wishing to get caught and deliberately avoiding it."

"Sherlock!" I hissed, pinching my nose.

He looked at me innocently, "Yes?"

"Care to introduce us to your apparent euphoria?"

Sherlock sighed reluctantly, "This was not done by the same individual as the other murders. This is someone new altogether. In fact, it is more of a copy-cat killer than anything considering you have said they have the same nails, scleras, and the like. That being said, there were a few other signs to clarify this. The fondness expressed in the former murders were dropped here. Bruises aligned the wrists and throat. Also, the hand itself of the murderer is different. Very much so. There are distinct impressions left along the lower jaw and bridge of the nose to infer that the murderer forced the pill into her mouth before suffocating her to the point that she would have to swallow it by default." He paused, amused. "Like I said, not a suicide."

Lestrade nodded while scribbling along the notepad in his palms. I was surprised how much he actually got written down. I probably would have contributed a few things here and there, but I was too busy being overwhelmed by the man's deductions. Was this how he was in every single one of his cases? If so, it was going to take a while to get used to this. This was breath taking and alluring.

And damn him for making it like that.

Damn this. Damn that. I seem to like combining that word to him like it was a nickname. I really should stop that before I let it slip, not that he would mind anyway.

The detective walked out of the living room with a "farewell Lestrade" and motioned for me to follow. I was making my way but Lestrade stopped me.

"John, I hope you don't mind my prodding, but… are you and him possibly…" I paused, tempted to brush it aside again. "It's just, when you were near him and especially when he was deducing and doing his normal antics, I could see a distinct white aura around you and him. I don't mean to prod, mate. It's not my intentions. I'm just a tad curious."

Mulling over what to say, I sighed and nodded.

"Yeah, but I doubt he will ever realize. You have known him a long time, Lestrade. He is intelligent in everything knowledgeable but oblivious in the social and human of life. Whatever the case, I've gotten used to it. I think as long as he keeps being his childish and abruptly confusing self, I will manage being the one to keep him out of danger."

Lestrade patted my back and pushed me out the door, "Well, best of luck, mate! I will say that if nothing happens by the next case, I might have to interfere!" We both laughed at that and he waved goodbye before shutting the door.

I, on the other hand, took quick and contrasting heavy steps to the cab. Each step was like concrete that matched my heart thumping to the delegating fear of mating.


	13. Picturesque

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter that I have posted on FF.net. Therefore, I'm going to take a break before I post the new stuff. I do have a beta reader who I will eventually be helping me with these later chapters, but currently I'm going to post the newer chapters since they have been sitting on my computer for months.
> 
> Expect them in an hour or two at most. I apologize for all the errors you had to read as well as the horrible plot in itself. I know this story isn't that good, but it's something different and I enjoy writing it.

Before I entered the cab, I peered around. I didn't know what I was looking for – or hoping to not see – but an urge had gripped me to perform a surrounding scan before entering the cab. It was a gut feeling and they normally were right, despite my luck proving to be the opposing force. This one felt increasingly important even though the area certainly didn't feel like it.

Dark buildings, dimly-lit windows, and empty sidewalks greeted my view for a second or two. Nothing out of the ordinary. Everything was as it should be, in that sense of complete compliance and a little bit of boredom. Dull greys and other colors flashed before my eyes like a long movie with no plot or action to change it. The usual. The orthodox. Nothing abnormal.

Boredom wanted to scream into my skull like a ricocheting bullet, but I refrained from doing so with a grim smile. That is what Sherlock would do, wouldn't he? He would say that all of this was boring and rather unimportant to the case at hand. While I would probably agree to his statement, that feeling still pushed me to look forward, past the darks that were subtly different, almost unchanging.

That was when I spotted it. Ah, actually, that was when I spotted _her_. Although her white hair was hidden under a makeshift beret and she seemed dirtier, it was unmistakably Lucille Faye. The girl from a few days ago.

Was it a few days ago or was it weeks? With all this chasing and hiding, it seemed like months had passed by in a blink of an eye when in reality it had only been a few minutes! Perhaps it was my new life with Sherlock, one that will never be boring as long as I am with the man who abhors it most.

Tangents, John.

I felt Sherlock pull on my sleeve, but I shooed him away, squinting at the small Translucent girl. She wasn't hard to see since she was a stark contrast to the dark and musty alleyway she resided in. I didn't know how she could see me, or even how she knew I was looking at her, but almost instantaneously she began motioning me to follow her. When I didn't move, she gave me probably one of the most distressed faces I have ever seen before trying to sign something.

I wasn't fluent in sign language, TSL (Translucent Sign Language) even less so, but I knew the basic alphabet in both. One word stood out for me: urgent.

Flashes and sirens went off in my head. Exhilarated John that was chasing detectives was pushed back to reveal Doctor John who saved lives when they needed it most. Sherlock's complaints and the cabbie's grumbles and pleas were drowned out as I attempted to read her quick fingers. This was definitely more important than a simple cab home. It might as well involve someone's life that I could recover.

Her fingers verified it.

_Urgent. Help. Injured. Vicinity._

She didn't need the medical attention, but somebody else did who was probably a good friend of hers. Either way, I was being wasted here as an ear for Sherlock's rants. She needed me and the twinges of annoyance that followed made me almost curse. I didn't have my medical bag with me, but that didn't stop me from breaking into a sprint. Once I was a few meters from Lucille, she pivoted and began running, always glancing behind her shoulder every so often to be sure I was following her.

Alleys twisted and turned, darks greys became blacks with brief spurts of white light from the few lanterns. Trash littered every wall and more than I few times I could feel something break under my foot whether glass or some other substance I didn't care to clarify. It wasn't until I saw the gate that stood possibly five meters high that I knew where we were heading. It was very distinct and anybody would be able to locate it from far away.

The Grime Zones.

They were as the name implies. The zone where trash and the poor accumulate and prosper. Where those who can't pay mortgage or rent of their flat end up eventually. Where the homeless visit frequently or stay at as their home. I only know this from the few times the hospital sends me here to check on the health of the inhabitants. These people were often susceptible to the most common of illnesses. A disease was like a wildfire here and if one spark got out, a plague would begin.

Many people reside here and as my pace slowed to a brisk walk, I could tell the Discoloured from the Translucent to the Sombres. This area was like a melting pot of the color scheme. Oddly enough, I saw a few Iridescence couples here and those were one of the saddest sights to see. Even though they are happy with their mate and life, they still are not allowed to live the life they fully deserve as a human being.

But these were the grime zones. I didn't know if it was more depressing that they actually had a place to hold all of the homeless and poor or that they all used to harbor along the shadows of buildings and the ink of the alleys.

Lucille patted my arm and I blinked, looking at her. She was pointing at one of the many little huts adorning the walls of the Grime Zone. Small huts that looked no more than simple adobe buildings with a piece of cardboard as a door. A few were caved in, but most were in okay condition, only protesting when other people placed pressure on their walls.

Ducking my head in the doorway, Lucille knelt in front of a boy that was perhaps a few years older than she was. Beside him was another boy, definitely the second oldest of the trio. Judging from their few traits that their Translucent parents passed, I guessed they must have been siblings. He was one of the most concerned of the group.

But not the one with the most injuries. That would be the oldest. It didn't take rocket science to see this young man was inflicted physically and not by disease. That was at least one little ray of sunshine in this otherwise grim situation. If something as painful as tuberculosis grasped him, I would be able to do nothing but to try and make him as comfortable as possible.

His chest and arms were lacerated with what appeared to be whips. His fingers and most of his right arm were scorched with third-degree burns. A cut above his left eyebrow was bleeding profusely and I didn't see him responding to the pain. No doubt he fell unconscious and his body needed the time to recover from the shock. Not dead, just not conscious.

"D-doctor…" the girl stuttered, shaking as she pointed to her comrade.

Getting on my knees, I saw the boy and sighed. I didn't have half the supplies I needed. Hell, I didn't have _any_ of the supplies I needed and there was little to use here as improvisation.

I was about to question anything to write on when both of the children stiffened. They peered fearfully at some shadow in the doorway. When I looked up, I glared at the shadow who stood awkwardly in the doorway.

"If you are going to scare the children, Sherlock, at least be courteous and tell them your name. That was uncalled for."

"Oh, like how you deserted me at the cab," Sherlock retorted, kneeling next to me. The children scooted away a little but I stopped them.

"He's a friend," I told them softly and pointed to Sherlock. "Don't worry about him. He isn't here to hurt you and if he was, I would protect you. Don't fret." The two children relaxed a little bit, though they still watched the man with a mixture of fear and confusion. Sherlock didn't say anything to deter their fear either, much to my dismay. Things would go so much easier if he would actually lower the tension in this room.

I continued the examination of the boy's injured form, creases forming after each marking. The Violent Vicinity was definitely the cause for the injuries this young man sported. It wasn't the worst case I have set my eyes on, but it wasn't the simple ones either. I needed supplies. With where they are living and residing in now, I wouldn't be surprised if the wounds he sustained are infected.

"Sherlock." He looked up at me, his eyes meeting mine steadily. "Do you have a pen? I need it for a second if you do." Reaching into one of his pockets, he mutely handed me a pen. I fumbled my fingers around my pocket and beamed when I found a piece of paper, not curious what was on it.

Ripping a corner out of it, I stuffed the rest back in my pocket. I used my knee as a writing surface as I quickly wrote something down and handed it to Lucille. She flinched a little, her blindness not picking it up quick enough but soon enough she grabbed it and rubbed her fingers over it. Her brows creased a little in confusion.

"What do you wish for me to do, Dr. Watson?" She looked up at me and I couldn't help but to offer a grim smile I knew she wouldn't see.

"I need you to take that to the hospital you went to see me. Do you remember where that is?" She nodded slowly. "Good. Go there and ask the nice receptionist to see Sarah Sawyer. When you see her, hand her this note and she will definitely give you some supplies or will accompany you back to me."

I helped her up and when she found her way to the door I called out to her, "Lucille?"

She turned, determination showing in her otherwise sightless eyes, "Yes?"

I smiled, "Run. It gets you places faster."

Nodding, she was off. I looked at the door for a moment longer before sighing. The younger boy kept looking at Sherlock like he was confused. I suppose this would be a good time to ask what happened.

"What happened to this boy, if you don't mind me asking?" I gently prodded the boy and he shivered.

"Big brother saw the Violent Vicinity coming our way from the entrance of the Grime Zones. He hid us but he couldn't hide himself with us. He wasn't fast enough. The Violent Vicinity came up to him and pushed him. They were growling and calling him all these names and accusing him of things he never did. Then… Then…" Tears began to spill over the child's eyes and I hushed him.

"He got hurt, yes?" I finished and the boy nodded. "Can you tell me what the man who hurt him was like? This is, assuming it is a man?"

"It was a man. I could hear the voice. Not a kid. I don't know anything else except his aura was weird. It was different from what I have ever deciphered."

My eyes narrowed and I felt Sherlock stiffen a little beside me, "What was it like?"

"It wasn't fully Violent. It wasn't at all. It was only a little bit. It kept getting mixed with monochrome auras. I didn't know what he was and it scared me."

 _"Not fully monochrome, but not of Violent Vicinity origins? Why does that sound familiar?"_ I thought as I gently removed some of the clothing on the eldest boy.

I paused, well-aware of who else fit this but wasn't of Violent Vicinity type. Removing my hands, I looked at the boy steadily, "If I had asked you to compare the aura to mine or Sherlock's, who would you choose?"

The boy hesitated before signing in TSL the name. I guess he didn't trust Sherlock, though I had no doubt in my mind that Sherlock probably knew TSL as well. Twisting and rotating his wrist and fingers, I easily read what he was trying to spell.

_"Sherlock."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a concern on FF.net when someone asked how the Translucent use TSL (Translucent Sign Language). I just want to post it here for plot purposes.
> 
> Also, I'm copying directly from FF.net so grammar errors will be present until I go back and fix them which will hopefully be after I post all the chapters I have up.
> 
> As for TSL:
> 
> Much like Helen Keller who was taught sign language by her instructor using her hand to mold Helen's over to get the letter and shape, this is how the Translucence are taught their TSL. The difference is, of course, that they can clearly hear the sounds which makes it significantly easier. Now that that is explained, let me attempt to explain how they learn in case that comes up later.
> 
> Most of the time TSL is taught to the educated Translucence, albeit rare in the society. Otherwise, this trait may be acquired by physically teaching. That being said, it is almost interesting to realize that the Monochrome/Iridescence society were the ones to create this system – not the Translucence themselves. This was because the Translucence didn't see the need but the normal crowed found it difficult to convey conversations with them when they spoke so softly.
> 
> Translucent parents rarely teach their offspring this skill unless they actually know this language very well or have the patience to slowly perfect it. Neither is the case half the time depending on lifestyle and culture.
> 
> In the case of Lucille, Toby, and Seth, if you remember correctly they are orphans. I originally planned to mention their past in some filler to explain things, but while I'm at this whole information spiel, I might as well clear it up now. They are orphans but their parents, prior to being assassinated by the Violent Vicinity, were actually mediocre in status compared to the usual Translucence party. That being said, they didn't live in the Grime Zones then and had more or less a place to live in. Their parents were able to have someone teach their children TSL because they found it a useful skill in case they were in trouble or wanted to prosper in life, granted this did cause the Violent Vicinity to notice them and led to the tragic result.
> 
> So, to sum this up, TSL is a language that Translucence who are uneducated – a good portion of the percentage – don't understand and those who were lucky to learn are able to convey. If there is confusion as to why John knows this language, think of it as ASL or the like. You learn it in case you need it but just enough to get the basics.


	14. Patchwork

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first of my many new chapters yet to be released on FF.net due to my being afraid to send them to my beta reader (although she is an absolute dear). Figured I'd post them here so enjoy the special privileges, I guess?

The confession didn’t scare me as absolutely as it probably should have. In fact, what I did feel would be akin to concern in retrospect. I was definitely put off by the fact that there were more people like Sherlock, or at least one more person, out there roaming the streets for the opposite reasons, but the fact initiated protectiveness rather than fright. The increased danger was disconcerting and I was worried for the Translucent and Monochrome who resided here.

The captain in my bones that protected soldiers in the heat of battle ached to put an end to this danger. It was preposterous the social clashes that take place merely because one side couldn’t get along with the other. It resembled childish disputes that truly had no reason to ever happen in the first place. My inner combatant wanted nothing more than to create peace in an already dangerous area as I had in the past. 

However, these were clearly different circumstances and I doubt it would be as easy as ordering a squadron towards a confined violent area. This little drawback did nothing to relinquish the bitter resentment towards these quarrels nonetheless.

The point was, a surge of robustness seemed to originate from the confession. A fierce emotion I have been told to reign in many times for it often led me to rash or stubborn circumstances. It was far better than crippling horror, though.

It wasn’t just emotional attachments that strengthened these sentiments. It was the safety of the people, as the doctor part of me would gladly attend to. If that same individual came by often, then that would result in more than enough hospital emergencies for this absurd cause. More unnecessary injuries and fatalities that could have been prevented.

Or murders if the Violent Vicinity were to decide to go too far.

Ha, _if_. The Violent Vicinity _would_ take any chance to end the life of their long-settled enemy. They wouldn’t falter in the act due to age either. It’s that fact alone that makes me curious why they decided to contradict their tactics this time. It definitely wasn’t because of the other two younger children and their innocence. In fact, the Violent Vicinity would gladly torture those two in front of the eldest for show and pure mutiny and malice.

The Violent Vicinity became parched with wild assessments if they didn’t get their blood quota. They thrived for violence – as their name hints – and disproved of any terms resembling peace. Screams, tears, and blood were their meals of sin and they would never, _ever_ cease a kill just because of the age of their enemy.

This fact brought up a question now.

Why did they stop for these children? It didn’t make any sense. They don’t care about anyone besides themselves. Nobody else besides their own little clan. “To each its own” I have seen painted in a gray or blackening paint (blood?) along crumbling skyscrapers and vacant buildings. A message they wished to enforce on anyone, including their enemy before ending their life.

It portrayed a paradoxical message compared to what happened to this young man.

But I didn’t have the time to wonder about the sudden ethical and moral change in society. I needed to help this boy. Personal wonders can wait until I am back at the flat with the boy’s safety resting in the front of my mind.

“What is your name?” I asked the boy who still eyed Sherlock wearily. I couldn’t blame him. Sherlock hadn’t exactly made an effort to ease the children’s fears nor had he even introduced himself. To them, he might as well be a dark shadow behind me that would strike in their moment of weakness. I would have to talk to him about that later if he continues to accompany me.

The young boy didn’t speak at first. I waited. If I pushed him, he would scurry like a frightened animal. I needed to be patient which I thanked whatever God out there that I was.

“Toby,” he responded slowly, averting his eyes to meet mine. They were shielded of emotion as expected.

“Okay. Well, Toby, do you happen to have a knife around here? Preferably one that isn’t rusted or without a handle.” I paused for a second. That sounded a little too vague. No doubt he is in a state of paranoia and suspicion about Sherlock and me. I needed to clarify. “I need to cut your brother’s shirt so I can get to the wounds when your sister gets back. It would make things easier to treat him effectively.”

Toby opened his mouth a little as if to retaliate before nodding mutely at my stern stare and standing. I didn’t watch where he went, merely attempting to rip the few bits of the boy’s shirt I could tear without additional help. It was becoming increasingly difficult with the blood crusting all over in patches of dark splotches.

There was another contradiction.

Why whip this boy? The Violent Vicinity was known for their murders and attempted assassinations originating around knives. They prided themselves in how much blood their blade got to soak up. A whip was a weapon none of them have used as far as I have been around the medical crew. Whoever did this was an outlier in their society, or possibly not even of their society altogether.

Another rip between my fingers as I picked apart the fabric and discarded it next to me. I suppose this frustration did aid in getting rid of the fabric easier.

It still did not change the fact that logic and routine was lost here. None of this made any sense. This was definitely not Violent Vicinity protocol and I should know! I am a bloody doctor and have seen these cases for as long as I have been occupied at the hospital. This should fall into place easily, but it doesn’t. It’s scattered like a million puzzle pieces all from a different puzzle. I didn’t want to ask Sherlock about this, but the temptation was growing quickly.

Speaking of Sherlock, he hadn’t uttered a word since he got here. He muttered even less after Toby signed his name. He seemed to be giving off a cold, emotionless stature among the children for some odd reason. It was unsettling and definitely not the usual attitude the detective expressed. Even the sparks I got when I occasionally brushed his wrist were weak and minuscule compared to those I attracted before.

I wanted to ask Sherlock what was the matter, because clearly something was, but I needed to focus on the unconscious boy’s injuries for the moment. They were of a greater importance than Sherlock’s stand-offish attitude.

Although I did plan to ask him of it later if I had it my way.

“Doctor Watson,” I looked up and Toby was there with a knife. It was a switchblade, nothing fancy, but definitely an abnormal occurrence in the perks of this neighborhood. The blade looked brand new and not a single drop of rust or grime covered its metal sheen. I rose a brow at the young boy who clearly should not even have this. Toby’s face darkened under my scrutiny like he could feel my suspicion despite his blindness.

“I… won it in a game of cards,” he uttered quickly and I rolled my eyes at his obvious lie. Sherlock could lie better and he was bloody _awful_ at it.

“A game of cards…” I repeated slowly and the boy nodded hastily. Staring at him for a second longer, I let out a sigh.  
Better not question it. That would be wasting valuable time that I need.

Grasping the knife, I effectively stripped the injured boy of his garments and frowned when he shivered against the warm night. Placing my palms against his forehead, I ripped it away quickly, cursing under my breath.

Some of his wounds must have managed to get infected. The fever was the tell-tale sign with the additional slow pool of yellow pus around several of the lacerations. Unless the boy was sick prior to his beating which I highly doubted at this point.

I tried my best to avoid the burns that were almost as red as his inflamed skin. There was little I could do for burns until Sarah or Lucille arrived. Nonetheless, if I can’t handle one aspect of his injuries, I might as well attend to the others. 

“Before I proceed, what is the name of this young man, Toby?” I asked, grabbing the edge of my medical scrubs I still had on from work and ripping a long strip out of the bottom. Sherlock watched with disinterest, but I saw Toby flinch.

“Seth,” he responded quietly.

“And has Seth been sick before the attack?” Toby quickly shook his head as I expected. The boy didn’t sport any other common signs of illness, only expressing those conventional for fighting infections in the body from an outside source.  
Layering the strip of fabric to a makeshift cloth, I gave it to Toby. He took it but not without a few questions in his expression.

“I need you to get this cloth wet with preferably clean water if you can. Cool as well. It’s for Seth.”

“Why?” he questioned. He was standing but his pose was hesitant.

“Because I fear your brother may have an infection and I’m going to have to act fairly quickly whenever your sister gets back. Right now, we have to calm this fever and bring it under or he will have to be taken to the E.R. which I’m almost certain you don’t want to be at.” The boy paled but nodded and ran out of the room. I sighed, plopping down again.

An infection. I expected it, but I was hoping that it wouldn’t happen. When I looked at the wounds previously covered by the fabric, I muttered a few choice words. A few of the lashes were beginning to swell with inflammation, red streaks dispersing under the skin. No doubt it was because the fabric was kept on him for so long. Bacteria liked to grow in dark, moist, warm areas and Seth’s body was the best environment with his blood, body heat, and clothing.

“John.” I jumped at my name being called. I forgot Sherlock was there. He was being so damn quiet that I thought he left me or just turned into a ghost.

“Hm?” The scraps of cloth were moved away from the body of the boy to the walls of the adobe home. Away from him and his sickened body.

“How long do you plan to stay here?” It was emotionless. Rubbing the bridge of my nose in exhaustion and worry, I looked him straight in the eye.

Maybe he should go home. It would be best. He couldn’t really do much here. This was where I shined and he looked more awkward than Harry at a wedding.

“I honestly have no idea, Sherlock. Medicine and helping someone isn’t something that you can slap a time limit on and expect it done. It depends on the body and the illnesses that plague it. Right now, Seth is very sick and in bad condition. I might be here for a good few hours.” Sherlock opened his mouth to put in his two cents but I stopped him. “But, you don’t have to be here. Go ahead and go back to the flat. Once I get there we’ll go get some take-out or whatever. Gives you time to sort out the case, right?”

Rubbing the fatigue out of my eyes, I looked at Sherlock in time to catch what I thought was a hint of worry and hurt. When I blinked again, it was gone. It was replaced with his emotionless mask and I concluded that maybe I imagined it all. I was already on the brink of enervation after all.

Also because nothing else would have made sense for those emotions entirely focused on me.

Standing silently and gracefully, he walked to the edge of the adobe doorway and walked out. When the steps went silent, I sighed. Some of the tension I didn’t feel before fell on my shoulders. For some reason, being alone now without Sherlock made my hands shake and my brain overthink things. Tension was getting to me and I didn’t like it.

“John?” I looked up and saw Sherlock there again. His head peeked in and I rose a brow in his direction to inquire his presence.

“Be careful. Something is amidst and I don’t trust half the people here.” I was about to scoff at him and his rarity in trust altogether but almost as quick as he was there he was gone. 

I let out a breathy laugh and shook my head. He didn’t trust anyone? Mr. World’s Only Consulting Detective? When did he trust _anyone_? I mean, I doubt he even trusted me!

My head slowly nodded side to side. His words were almost verifying what I thought of earlier though. Of what I suspected, actually. This attack was abnormal and even Sherlock realized it which is as good as an official confirmation.

Using the knife, I continued to cut pieces of fabric until Seth’s bare chest lay bare. His breathing was shallow yet labored as if he couldn’t breathe much less than wouldn’t. A layer of sweat glistened like another coat of skin, and I felt helpless as I put the knife aside and tried to make the boy more comfortable until the real help arrived.

When I saw a dark shadow cross the floor again, I almost wanted to yell at the man. Really. How many times was he going to come back? Truly now. Was he one of those people who were lost without someone to praise their actions? I never dubbed him as so but now I was seriously considering it!

However, one glance at the figure in the doorway and my mouth went dry.

Sherlock was not at all the silhouette I narrowed on in the doorway. Not in the slightest.

Who stood there instead was a man of lanky build and irregular hue. His pose was nothing short of mocking and obvious distaste. 

In fact, he appeared like he wanted to pummel me to the ground if given the chance. It was all in his stance and while I couldn’t tell his occupation from his left pinky or his string of lovers with a glance at his neck, I could clearly define the absolute mood of anger that flooded the room.

When he stepped into the spotlight the moon offered begrudgingly, I could see his form more clearly along with his face. Pale grey and white painted his skin like porcelain and not a single blemish marked its surface. The composition matched perfectly with his black styled hair and corresponding black suit. He moved his hands to reside inside his pockets and I caught the movement like a mouse watching a cat wearily for its next strike.

I was well aware that I was the mouse in this situation. I was definitely the mouse, but I could act like I wasn’t. That was easier to do than to retort half-weary contradictions.

“Hello, love,” Following the voice, I quickly met the alternating colored eyes of the man. One second they were metallic and the next they were a light gray. I forced my attention from his amused gaze back to Seth who was currently shivering more violently than before. Part of me knew that he needed the medicine quickly, but the other part knew that if they came here they would no doubt be the cause of this rendezvous in the first place.

“Who are you?” My voice was low and stiff. If any warmth resided in its being, it was gone now by the mere sight of this man.

“Oh, I am wonderful, dear. Thank you for asking,” he responded sarcastically before smirking. “You know, that’s what they always ask don’t they?” This time he didn’t turn to me but to the shadows behind him. A second later, a snicker rang out from the darkness as another man came out, taller than the one beside him. His skin was significantly darker than the pale man beside him and his build even more pronounced.

A gleam bounced off the knives that adorned his belt and the few snipers on his back. My lips tightened as I calculated this into my plan to put them in their place. I thought I had a chance with the man before, the paler one, but now it was questionable and leaning towards their favor. It didn’t help that I needed to keep this boy safe. What if they were here to finish the job?

I would lay down my own life before they touch this boy.

The bulkier man looked me up and down, his expression emotionless save for the few glimpses of the betraying amusement, “Yes. Who are you?”

“Why are you here?”

“Where did you come from?”

“Who do you work for?”

“Are you here to kill me?”

With each banter they sent back and forth, they took a step forward. The taller man retrieved his knifes while the other pulled a whip out of seemingly nowhere. Words were flying between them like they were playing a little game of badminton. It was almost as if they practiced the lines which made it more eerie than it probably should have been.

Adjusting my form, I slowly crawled in front of Seth, seeing as he couldn’t move to protect himself. I extended my arms away from me to keep the damage to hopefully my body only if any were to be dealt. It was highly possible with the way the two were balancing their weapons.

“What’s your name?” They ended though this was on the paler ones side. This time, he directed the question at me. I decided to use silence and remained quiet.

“Oh? Cat got your tongue? Odd considering you asked who I was a minute ago, did you not? Or was that a trick of the ear?” He snickered, but at the last word a brief tinge of his annoyance presented itself with the glimmer of his metallic eyes.

He glanced around the adobe room before meeting my eyes again with irritation, “If you give us your name, we will tell you who we are. Deal?” He seemed reluctant to the question, his companion even more so, but at the same time curiosity was burning at him. Again, that theme took place between morality and curiosity except I had an inkling of a feeling that this man didn’t hold a smidgeon of morality to his name.

That being said, I didn’t trust him. Why should I trust a bloke – or two – who were clearly the ones responsible for inflicting the pain onto this young lad? I knew they were bound to cause the same to me, but I wasn’t going to practically give them information on a silver platter while I am at it.

The brawny man peered at the man I presumed was his boss or leader. “He isn’t responding. Did you want me to introduce him to what we do for those with tightened lips?”

“…I suppose you could impose upon him a few reminders,” the man allowed with a small grin playing across his lips. He didn’t look nearly as sorry as he sounded. Quite the polar opposite.

With his knives spinning over his fingers, the follower came up to me quickly, pressing the knife to my neck. My hands were itching at my sides to throw a punch, but I would be leaving the boy behind me exposed and that was probably what they were waiting for. Breathing slowly and shallowly, I glared at the perpetrator with bitter resentment. He reacted with indifference.

Carefully, dramatically, he slinked forward with a grin. “Now, care to tell me what your name is?” He paused and then the smile widened. “Please?”

I rolled my eyes at the mannerism. Really. Please does affect the information you get in some cases, but it certainly didn’t apply to this one. He would have better luck torturing or killing me than eliciting personal information.

It didn’t matter anyways. Currently, my doctor-mode and military-mode were both active. Protection and concern. Self-sacrifice and determination. I was not going to let their blades touch Seth. They were going to remain as far as I can restrain them. If that meant that I would get hurt in the process then so be it.

It felt like a broken record in my mind. _Protect Seth. Sacrifice yourself. Protect Seth. Sacrifice yourself._ Each time it came around I only believed in it more. It's not as if I was given a reason not to in the first place.

A quick sliver of pain caught me off guard as I flinched. The brute lifted his knife and smirked at the line made on my neck. It didn’t hit an artery but my medical knowledge told me it was dangerously close. I was well aware of the warm liquid that trailed down my neck as I breathed and slowed down my racing heart to compensate. I needed to remain calm. The faster my heart beats the faster the blood is going to pulse.

I didn’t have much time to focus on the goal before two more cuts were afflicted towards my cheek and just over the brow. A low hiss escaped my lips but nothing more. I refused to give them the satisfaction of witnessing my pain.

“Now don’t hurt him too much, Sebby,” the theatrical man scolded and I blinked as a gasp escaped the lips of whom I presumed to be Sebastian and not that little pet name.

“Jim!” Sebastian protested but it was too late. It seems I managed to gather their names before they even caught whiff of my own.

“Oh please, it’s not like it will truly matter. Besides, keeping my name a secret is not entirely my forte. You should know this by now,” Jim replied with a dismissive wave of his hand before glancing at me. “Oh! My name is Jim Moriarty, but I am sure you will learn to remember that later.”

“Jim…” This time it was a sigh that escaped Sebastian’s lips and I resisted the urge to chuckle. Were these two really the two that attacked this boy? The skills proved that they very well might be, but their attitude was certainly not in the ballpark I expected. “You’re not-“

Moriarty rolled his eyes as if he had heard this multiple times before. “Stop being a sour sport, Sebby. I have told you how much I despise it.”

“But Jim-“

“Sebastian. You will do well to remember your place.” The chill and order in Moriarty’s voice was a swift change from earlier. It was no longer playful and childish but cold and emotionless. I felt a shiver run down my spine as my suspicions were confirmed that these were indeed the two men who attacked this boy. I questioned it earlier, but now I was more than certain. I didn’t need Sherlock here to confirm it.

Sebastian lowered his head and stopped his retaliating. “Yes, sir.”

Then, just like that, Moriarty was back to his usual self with a grin. “Good! Now, let’s continue before some little mice squeals on us.”

I clenched my teeth when those eyes suddenly turned predatory.

But I refused to succumb to their attempts at intimidation. “Why are you here?”

A low chuckle rang out between the both of the men, almost harmonizing as the time wore on.

At last, Moriarty smiled pitifully. “Oh, I don’t think you are in the position to ask questions.”

I shook my head, determined. “No, I may not be, but that isn’t going to stop me from asking anyhow. Why are you here?”

Sebastian sent another cut right below my previous incision along my neck, a little deeper than the last and a little closer to a major artery. Clearly he wasn’t amused with my reprisal towards his boss’s words.

Moriarty, on the other hand, was impressed by the looks of it. “Ah… I can see why Sherlock chose you to follow on his heels now. How interesting.”

I was tempted to bristle at the mentioning of Sherlock’s name. Tempted to ask what he knew of him and if he did anything to him. But I held my ground. I didn’t want to show weakness in the face of the enemy. One of the first things you learn when in the military and you are captive. 

Moriarty was hoping to find my weakness. He was purposely saying these things to throw me off and leave me vulnerable. That’s one of the most common goals in any criminal’s book of tricks. I was certain I had it under control.

Then Moriarty shrugged. “But primarily it was for a little thrill as I am sure you understand, Captain Watson. A little kick of adrenaline all us junkies require to survive in this monotonous world.”

I froze. He knew my name. Not only that, he knew my previous title.

“Oh, surprised that I actually know you? You really shouldn’t be.” He smirked at me and I could read in his eyes that he knew more about me than he was willing to share. “I was just seeing if you were so gullible as to give out your name readily. It seems I have been mistaken to your uselessness, Dr. Watson.”

_Uselessness?_ I wanted to knock Moriarty against the adobe walls. To jump up and throw a right hook because I knew I wasn’t useless. If I was useless, I wouldn’t be kneeling here, protecting this boy with my life. If I was useless, I wouldn’t be kneeling here arguing with the devil for all its worth. He was trying to coax me out with jabs at my pride and I refused to let them break my walls.

A chuckle rang out from the pale man at my reaction.

“You don’t like that, do you? Being diminished of your worth?” Moriarty smiled innocently as I narrowed my eyes. He laughed a humorless snicker once more and stepped towards me. Sebastian’s hand clamped on the back of my neck, but I didn’t need it. I wasn’t going to back down to him. That would be a sign of weakness. “So human. So normal. You’re not like Sherly at all and he seems to still keep you regardless of that one singular fact.”

Straightening himself, he clapped his hands and returned to where he originally stood. I absently felt Sebastian’s hands lessen their pressure.

“Now, your question, yes?” I was surprised he remembered it at all to be honest. He seemed very flamboyant and tangential which left him unexpected. I was going off instinct alone to deal with him. “These are his parts, you know. His _territory_ so to speak.”

It didn’t take me long to grasp what he meant and who he meant. These were the areas, the society, Sherlock most associated himself to: The discarded, the wronged, the damaged, and the criminal in some cases. Moriarty didn’t attack this boy for no reason. He, somehow, knew that I associated myself with the sibling and thus knew attacking him would bring myself at the beck and call. I hadn’t the slightest clue how he knew Sherlock would come though.

“Confused?” Moriarty questioned and I shook my head.

“Hardly,” I lied.

“Is that so?” Moriarty cooed and walked closer, narrowing his eyes at me. After a second under his scrutiny, a grin blossomed on his face and he backed away. “Hm… Well, as much as I would love to testify that, Captain Watson, I am on a strict schedule right now. Sadly.”

The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. The retribution I was dying to give after the treatment I had been given. “I thought you were the one who ruled this supposed crime. To think you are actually subservient to others doesn’t exactly place you as such, doesn’t it?” 

Beside me, Sebastian stiffened considerably. I didn’t need his actions to tell me that I had somehow crossed that invisible line. The line that Sherlock held as well as I. Pride.

“Now you’ve done it,” Sebastian muttered next to me as Moriarty ceased his pacing.

When I looked up to meet Moriarty’s gaze, he was no longer smiling. It was just as he was when he addressed Sebastian. Stoic and emotionless eyes narrowed upon my form in distaste and displeasure. I didn’t need to be a mind reader to understand what he was thinking about me. The grey eyes of his sparked metallic and never changed back.

I prepared myself for the worst. I remembered what Toby said about this man. I hardly believed he would be speaking of Sebastian. While the criminal was indeed threatening, he wasn’t nearly as unpredictable as Moriarty – as this present Moriarty. I knew he wasn’t of Translucent blood. There was no possibility of him harboring those genes with the way he was acting.

No, he was of Violent Vicinity origins. There was no doubt about that. I just didn’t know how much of him was Violent. I didn’t know if he obtained the methods they used the most. I didn’t know what he could do to me.

Thus, I expected the worst. I prepared myself for pain and whatever else he may throw at me.

And it was going to be thrown at me entirely. I was not going to let him abuse the boy behind me any more than he already has. These thoughts raced through my head like a vicious circle of determination as I kept my gaze steady on Moriarty’s dispirited own. The pain will be narrowed onto my person. If taunting his quality and ruling required such, I wasn’t going to hesitate to get on his bad side.

Moriarty slinked forward carefully and I watched him. Those eyes never changed. His facial expression never changed. It was similar to looking into the face of a dead man.

When he was no less than half a meter away from me, he held out his hand. Sebastian mutely gave him the knife.

I knew what was going to happen before he even slashed multiple lacerations on whatever skin was visible. I couldn’t keep back the hiss of pain as he did so. These were not methodical. These were variables. The slashes of pain that burned against my cheeks, forehead, and brow were completely random. Luck was playing a big factor in how I haven’t had my lips slashed at yet for all the retaliations I have given.

When the cuts ceased, I let my breath out raggedly. I was taking deep, harsh breaths to keep my heart steady and not racing like a stallion. I imagine the glare I stabbed at Moriarty was nothing short of hatred. I thought he was done but I wasn’t sure. Moriarty was not a predictable man as I said earlier.

And then, Moriarty seemed to actually think over his next area of abuse. I gave him a steely glower and he regarded me apathetically.

Then he nicked my neck. It was clear he knew what he was doing when I realized he nipped the edge of an artery. Not enough to kill me immediately, but enough to make me bleed out no more than 15 minutes after his leaving. Nonetheless, I kept my breathing even and slow. Speeding up my respirations would only end me faster.

Moriarty observed me with aversion. “I want you to give Sherlock Holmes a message.” I didn’t miss the full usage of Sherlock’s name. It was a sign that he was serious and not at all as playful as he seemed earlier. “Tell him to remove himself from the case or the next time I won’t be so lenient with his little pet.” He spat the word “pet” out as if it was a disease and I resisted the urge to scoff.

He blinked slowly at me when he realized he wasn’t getting any reaction. Then he backed away, retreating to the door.

Before he walked out, he glanced at Sebastian. “Sebastian. Deal with him but don’t kill him. Leave a more permanent reminder if you will.” And then he was gone. I silently hoped nobody else would come across him. I never saw him put away his whip and I was concerned for the innocents outside of this abode.

Sebastian waited a few seconds before he spoke. I heard the hard edge in his tone mix with exasperation. “You are very lucky although I’m a little saddened that you didn’t try for more.”

“Lucky?” I huffed out and the man met my gaze.

“Yes, lucky. If you weren’t Sherlock’s little dog, he would have slit your throat open without a second thought.” A mental shiver raced down my spine at the thought.

“Then why do you follow him if you are under the same possibilities of danger?”

Sebastian closed his eyes for a moment before smiling. It resembled more of a grimace after a second. “For my own personal reasons.” It was clear after this he was not going to speak to me.

I tried to summon the energy to push him off me but it seemed that the blood loss took a gradual effect over my energy as I attempted to struggle. Sebastian was the one with the upper hand in this situation and I resented it.

Moving himself until he was right in front of me, he didn’t hesitate to thrust the knife into my upper left shoulder. For all the pride I had, I did not utter a noise. I didn’t focus on the pain. I didn’t focus on the fact that my arm might as well be useless if it isn’t treated immediately. Instead, I kept my eye on Sebastian while thinking of the boy behind me that didn’t have to go through this.

Sebastian clearly didn’t like the lack of reaction I was giving. Without warning, he twisted the blade. At this, I did hiss out in pain and he grunted in approval before removing it entirely. My blood dripped from it freely.

Wiping the blade on his pant leg, Sebastian spared one rueful grin before walking out to follow Moriarty.

I spent the next five seconds focusing on the fact that I was not only bleeding profusely from my shoulder but also consistently from my neck. The slashes on my forehead and brow were beginning to color my vision red. Bleeding out to death was a possibility at this point and I cursed myself for not having my gun on me. The knife lay discarded next to Seth but that would have done little in the company I had.

The damage was done anyways. There was no reason to ponder anything of it at this very moment. I protected the boy. He did not get harmed in the process of my actions. That was what I valued most in this situation as a success.

But that did not change the fact that I was indeed injured. Crawling over to the abode wall, I collapsed to the ground. My breaths were increasingly choppy. Pain was flaring especially vibrant in my shoulder. Speaking of the injury, my arm felt like it was dead weight. Each time I focused on moving it, I found it to shoot a spark of pain along my nerves that spotted my vision.

Great, so he shredded my tendons no doubt. A muscular injury. That was going to take time to heal.

Sighing, I spared a glance at the boy.

For a second, I was pleased with the fact that he was safe.

And then I remembered that Sarah and the other two children could be coming back. For all I knew, Moriarty could have run into them on purpose. If that was the case, they may be in danger.

I refused to sit around here in my own blood and made a goal to go find them. 

Although saying you’re going to do something is far different than actually performing the action itself as many like to say.

Cursing, I stood abruptly and immediately regretted it. The walls and the entire room rotated and contorted in my vision. Ceilings mixed with the floor and the walls spiraled in a monotone mess. Shades of gray and black mixed together and I grimaced, closing my eyes immediately. My hand shot out to balance myself against the abode walls since my knees threatened to buckle on me.

The only reason I didn’t faint was because I was a doctor and knew how to deal with this. God knew if I hadn’t been trained I would have been out like a light from the vertigo.

Once the walls ceased spinning, I took a deep breath and opened my eyes. It wasn’t until I took my first few steps that I realized just how incredibly weak I was at that moment. My feet didn’t step out like I planned but shuffled inconsistently. The blood loss was already taking its toll and I knew that unconsciousness wasn’t far behind. I would have sworn loudly had it not been that I worriedly focused on the black spots that danced before my eyes.

I pushed it aside and attempted to place it in the far reaches of my mind. I needed to focus on Sarah and the children. My own injuries can wait.

It was probably a few minutes later that I finally reached the doorway, but it felt like hours. My breaths were absolutely ragged and my vision even worse so. Nonetheless, I grinded my teeth and pushed myself forward. It took a few seconds for me to balance myself without support but I managed.

I was about to glance around when I heard my name.

“John!” 

Turning towards the noise, I immediately caught sight of Sarah and the children. A grateful smile crossed my face and a quick burst of laughter. The urge to just break down into relieved snickers until I couldn't utter a sound was so strong that I was lucky that only a few chuckles were heard. I would have sound like a mad man at the least. The rush of adrenaline to get me out here was already starting to drain, leaving me light-headed and shaky.  
When Sarah got to me she looked at me and noticed the injuries close up. She gasped but I waved it aside.

“A-Are you okay?” She asked despite my assurances.

“Yeah,” I slurred. “Perfect. Don’ worry ‘bout me.” Even in my eyes the attempt didn’t sound believable and Sarah’s concerned stare only made my attempt more pitiful.

Black began to consume my vision. I didn’t want it to but it was expected. The exertion I placed on my bones, muscles, and heart practically promised it in due time.

“Thank God you’re not hurt. The boy is inside… I-I need… need…”

I tried to form a coherent sentence but the next thing I knew I was falling and Sarah was calling out my name.


	15. Mottled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, when I planned out this story it was going to be in John's POV only. Mostly because I'm absolute rubbish at writing Sherlock. 
> 
> However, due to my inability as how to approach John's unconsciousness without awakening him, I decided to take a risk and attempt the detective.
> 
> It would have been uploaded sooner had I not had a moment of distress at the amount of OOC moments in the chapter that I had to fix for the sake of my writing sanity.
> 
> This chapter and the next... if I remember correctly, will be mostly plot/relationship chapters. I'm almost to my next action chapter which definitely makes me happy. It's easier to write action than romance. 
> 
> I apologize for OOC Sherlock for I am quite awful at writing him I will admit readily.
> 
> Also, for those of you who have bookmarked or sent kudos my way, it makes me very happy that someone is enjoying this deranged story. I cannot write well and the fact that some of you overlook that makes me smile. Thank you.

The glass beaker shattering into infinite pieces on the tiled floor filled my ears with a heavy ring. The liquid in it – copper (II) chloride and sodium chloride – splashed across my feet but I didn’t feel it. Well, no, obviously I did feel it since it was a liquid a soaked anything it touched. What I meant was that I currently elsewhere in a place where an experimental fallacy seemed minuscule for the current period.

There was a spark of pain that came with a few dispersing shards embedding into my foot, but I ignored it. I did flinch, because of the damned vessel, but I didn’t ponder it more than that given reaction.   
Pain.

It was such an ordinary sensitivity that came almost unwillingly, like a thief in the night sent to not steal items of sentimental value but of peace of mind and rationality. The vessel’s complaint of impact to both pragmatic and nonsensical reasons.

Such human emotions that have no effect on myself personally. At least, they didn’t until this very moment when it seemed as if pain decided to alleviate itself to another plane of rationality entirely.

I’ve never encountered such trivial concepts without obvious evidence. It was a different and enthralling sensation to become a witness and victim of.

It wasn’t hard to characterize what just occurred. A shock that vibrated throughout my entire being was the generalized sentence of what occurred. An impact similar to a reaction of muscle spasms sent to assuage the pain. The pain was sickening and utterly fascinating although I couldn’t even fathom why my shoulder could be under such distress.

As far as I was aware of, I had not maimed my shoulder between leaving John’s side and arriving back to the flat. The only reasonable ache should be the stitches still pulling annoyingly at my skin every so often, but those were specifically around my abdominal area, not the shoulder. 

Contradictions aside, I was completely engrossed in this new phenomena for obvious reasons. 

It was distinctive in the sense of rarity – an aspect I had yet to understand since I never knew there was a reason to. 

Was it a human receptacle reaction that was preventable or was it something spontaneous? Something logical on a different plane? So many questions. So little time. I was certain if I were to broach this topic of appeal to John he would brush it aside and say it was my fault for not consuming some sort of meal or beverage. Or better yet he would physically address my shoulder to make sure my “moronic capabilities” didn’t injure anything else.

Speaking of which, he has been gone for a while now, hasn’t he?

I paused, observing the shattered glass through my goggles. Hooking my fingers under the rubber straps, I yanked them off in one fluid motion and flicked them to the counter. Clearly I wasn’t going to be interacting with any chemicals for the time being until I understood the new factor.

But oddly enough, it seemed that every time I concerned myself with the thought of testing the facet, my thoughts would inadvertently alter themselves to the good doctor’s current wellbeing.

Why did my thoughts decide to from an experiment to John? It made no sense. These were two different specimens of an even more diverse subcategory. Unless they were directly related, I saw no reason for this reaction.

Besides, I doubt John needed my mind diagnosing him at the moment. As far as I was concerned, he was not in any danger besides perhaps his stubbornness and martyr self getting him into some sort of problematic situation. It wasn’t entirely rocket science to tell he didn’t like being told what to do and would place himself before anyone to help a mere stranger in need.

God, it was going to kill him no doubt one of these days. Idiot.

Ah, I was trailing after John again. Clear your head, Sherlock. The experimentation – specifically the phantom pain that spawned into your shoulder minutes ago.

John was only an individual of whom I have found noteworthy in my peculiar gaze. If I was going to fancy his unwavering complexes, I might as well wait for him to be directly in front of me for all it was worth.

Still, cognizance was quick to go from something as scientific and beguiling as the pain blossoming in my shoulder to a personal plane as John and… whatever he stands for in my mind palace.

Stepping over the glass, I walked over to the couch and plopped on it, my drive for experimenting dismissed. Sadly. Now all my attention wished to thrive in was John.

The sharp stab of whiplash in my abdomen scolded my actions almost immediately, and I hissed at the pain that followed in several pulses. Nothing was bleeding and my stitches were still intact, but it was clear that I should refrain from doing that in the future until their removal. 

The prickly nuisances in my feet also put in their two cents. I sighed at their prodding and sat up gingerly.

Using quick fingers, I plucked each shard out and flicked it into another beaker laying dejected in a dusty box. While the tinkling response of glass hitting its companion filled my thoughts, I decided to mull over this “John phenomena” I seemed to have attracted. 

And what of him? He was merely an acquaintance to shut Mycroft up on participating in getting a flatmate that was one of his security idiots. Nothing more than someone to accompany me to cases and make Anderson almost nonexistent. Just an extra piece to the chessboard. Just somebody who is there. John doesn’t play that much of a significant role in my deductions. Does he? 

Certainly not.

It was a preposterous thought.

A sigh escaped my mouth in an angry burst at the encircling theories. With the last of the shards discarded, I curled into the couch warily in case my stitches protested against the action.

He’s just someone who made enduring the Yard and Mycroft and all the idiots in the world more bearable.

That being said, why did I think of him so soon after the shock? I should have been immersed into the shock like it was an animal for me to dissect, but instead I think of John. Doctor John. Monochrome John. Did he hold some unseen line to this reaction? Was _he_ the cause of it?

I groaned and brought my knees to my chest. Too many questions and nobody certain enough to consult! Ugh, the difficulties of a consulting detective. Why can’t John be here to give me advice? Certainly he would be able to guide me into the right direction even if he will brush it aside. Something is better than nothing and his opinions seem more validated than most I have heard.

Why _isn’t_ John here?

The stiff sigh replenished any dying annoyance with the stupidity of that question.

Right, he was helping that child. Why couldn’t he just take him to a hospital? John’s needed here and I doubt he has his actual phone on him (partially because I have it on the end table but that was beside the point) for me to contact him with. He’s needed here. In that chair. Listening to my deductions and giving me little bits of praise or advice in between or even the frequent scolding of being “dense”. 

He needed to be here because _I_ needed him to be here. The realization of that thought sent another shock that more mental than physical.

I was relying on John too much and I have only known him for three days at most. He’s nobody important and no doubt soon enough he will leave me for some broad that I would find completely unsuitable. He’ll eventually abandon me to my own devices to move on with his life. Most people do. Mycroft did when he went to perform his schooling and Father and Mother were no different. I doubt that John will be the exception.

And now I feel… bitter? My heart feels heavy like someone was squeezing it. There’s pain but it has no source like the shoulder incident. Emotions were useless and confusing, yet here they were plaguing me with their own mundane satisfaction. They all revolved around John, as much of my thoughts have decided to focus on for the past half hour. Why did his words weigh so much in my head compared to the others? It made no logical sense and that alone irritated and scared me.

Closing my eyes, I gathered all information regarding John and his importance and placed it in a room, shutting the door.

A later time. I can’t be configuring this right now. In fact, I shouldn’t ever have to configure this. I was a machine. I was not some human flesh thing that feels all of these emotions and struggles with understanding them. I was a machine that analyzes them with a certainty. 

This was confusing and I hated it with every fiber of my being.

A vibration on the cluttered end table close to John’s arm chair caught my attention. The phone. 

“John can you get that?” It wasn’t until after I uttered those words I realized how utterly ludicrous that was. 

I was getting irritated for an unknown reason once more. I needed to focus on the case recently given to me. That will definitely help my current dilemma with bringing work to the forefront. 

But first, the phone.

Sighing, I got up and grabbed the phone, flipping it open to view who had the decency to contact me. Perhaps it was Lestrade stuck with another elementary case. Oh, how I craved a case at this moment or at least another murder for the current one. Something to alter my mindset on John and these regrettably baffling human emotions that follow him so adamantly. 

My fingers paused on the automatic motion of deleting the text when the contact appeared.

_Mycroft._

A part of me was rather curious why brother dear would want with me now. Would it even be favorable in my instance? Another case as blackmail? A chance to escape from dinner with mummy? All of it was laughable, really. To think he held himself on the pedestal of power and still has to resort to “peasant” methods, as he pointed out occasionally, to get what he wanted.

Whatever the reason may be for his abrupt fancy, he clearly had a purpose for doing so that was more amiable than most. Besides, if I choose to, I can just ignore his prodding. It _was_ a text after all. Not a call in which a reply is to be expected. With that, I clicked the button to see what Mycroft had in store.

_Isn’t it odd how your recent acquaintance hasn’t returned home? It seems you can’t keep them long, can you? – M.H._

I bristled at his message and quickly replied. What did he know? He found relationships to be rather… pointless and not useful in any situation possible where as I took the full competence of people to my advantage.

_What do you possibly have for me, Mycroft? If you wish to be your lovely brother self, I shall gladly decline any future replies. – S.H._

_Oh, please. I would assume you would be more pleasant to speak with considering this pertains to you. Common deduction, brother dearest. – M.H._

It pertained to me? What could possibly pertain to me besides my doctor?

Of course. John. He did mention him before emotions decided to interfere without permission.

_I would go visit St. Bart’s Hospital when you get the chance, Sherlock. You will find the answers about your doctor there. I hear he got quite the advancement, for lack of better terms, back at the Grime Zones. – M.H._

I didn’t bother replying how he knew this for it was obvious with how he observes the cameras constantly. It’s almost like he has no life besides tormenting myself and anybody who has spoken with myself in the last half hour. 

I did bother, however, to think about John a little more. The door in my mind opened a crack and a smidgeon of his information and all that is associated with him slithered through. John was in the hospital. Additionally, he no doubt was entered after personally meeting the man responsible for the inflicted child. I suppose the fact that he didn’t return home with this said injury implies that his medical… friends forced him to go to the hospital, or his injuries were too severe to allow him to come home in the first place.

On top of that, if he was lucid and/or conscious, he would have borrowed a phone from said friends to contact me. If anything, John was somewhat punctual at his best moments. 

Therefore, he was probably at the hospital presumably due to blood loss from some sort of wound or worse. I doubt Mycroft would be so amiable if he sustained anything fatal.

Without a second to think it over, I was up with my coat swinging over my shoulder, my scarf following suit soon enough. 

John was merely a… friend of mine, however, it was clear I valued his company. Would friend even cover us or would it be less? I have never appreciated nor encountered any true emotions related to friendship. That being said, how would I know the difference between acquaintanceship and friendship? 

Blast it all. I could never apply those terms as concretely as needed. 

If I was normal, I suppose I would have been concerned for John, of course. He was in the hospital and suffering from some sort of injury. Concern would be an understandable emotion to ponder in the likes of the situation.

Nonetheless, I was currently in a state of frantic disarray, not mild concern. The sudden rush that forced my body from the sofa was the same force that made every movement restless in this cramped cab.

The cab driver kept looking back at me with a raised brow after I caught myself muttering once or twice. I could read the questions in his eyes. They were clearly about my current attitude in which was odd for anyone who knew me. 

Scoffing, I glanced out the window, not satisfied with the slow advancing street lights along the darkened streets of London. It was too dawdling for my taste and I would have been happier had it advanced at a faster speed. 

Great, I’m getting irritated. Oh, this is absolutely grand. More emotions, except these seemed to appear more often than not. Irritation is the blossom of all my combined annoyances and uncertainties. All of these little reservations all circle John. John Watson. Army doctor in the past, now resorted to the usual clinic. 

At first, having him around was merely for my own personal experimental purposes. That’s all it was for. I was curious about that dull spark that shocked me when he brushed my skin. I was enthralled in something I wasn’t used to feeling. That’s all it was and that’s all I wished it to remain.

An experiment.

Because that’s what I understand most: science, logic, and rationality.

What I had just acted upon was _not_ in any of those categories, therefore I couldn’t rationalize it. I had the vocabulary, the diction, the language, but it all abandoned me and left me with no strings to grasp on. 

One of those strings that continued to elude me was my current dilemma.

Why did my form bend beyond my normal habits to go to him? 

There were many reasons that could be so and none of them were appreciated in my eyes. They were completely superfluous. Almost as outmoded as the necessities of emotions.

After all, I am a bloody machine. I am a sociopath, high-functioning or otherwise. This… virus is contaminating me and I would rather have it gone than to indulge it. Relationship status, emotions, hierarchy, and color. All of these things mean nothing to me unless presented of use in my line of work.

And yet a specific sub-virus, relationship status, is continuing to prod me like a mosquito in my skull.

Perhaps I was going at this the wrong way.

What would John think of this problem? What would he dub all these conflicting emotions as? He was far more moral and humane than I was. He would understand these better. What would he call this?

A single word appeared almost immediately.

Companionship. Perhaps not that exact description, but it would be in the same category.

Companions… that sounded amiable and correct than blindly assigning a noun such as friends. That word was the only rational explanation for my actions; the only one I was willing to consider. It has to be it. Every other possibility was not even probable in my case.

“Going to see your mate? In some heaty event I’d reckon?” I flickered my gaze over to the curious cabbie driver. He was young but happy. Not overly anxious or ambitious. He was content. It was rare finding people like him in this city. He would be worth considering and possibly listening to.

He shifted under my gaze and his skin darkened to a dark grey. “You know, you seem to be experiencing what I went through when I found my own. So, how long have you two been together? A few months?”

My body froze when I realized what he was hinting. He assumed John and I were… _soul mates._

Not possible. Not even the smallest percentage could give it merit.

The driver noticed my surprise almost immediately and his face darkened entirely. “Oh, Christ. I’m sorry. I just assumed…” he chuckled nervously. “You just have the look and I thought… Yeah, I’ll just shut up. Forget I said anything.”

_Too late_ I wanted to reply sarcastically but refrained from it. He didn’t know and taking my anger out on him would be rude.

Sighing, I met the driver’s eyes before looking out the window again and said nothing. 

With little to no more advances in conversation, I arrived at the hospital soon after. 

The second I walked in, a doctor spotted me. She appeared familiar, possibly one of John’s coworkers I haven’t the pleasure of meeting. Rushing over to me, she grabbed my hand and shook it quickly before addressing me. It was rather out of order for the hospital standards I noticed.

She was definitely of a higher status than most of the nurses and receptionists here. So she would be the one to enforce the entire code of conduct, but definitely not the one to run the hospital. Speaking of her vocation, it was clear she was not concentrating on her work. In fact, she was placing her personal feelings before it.

Frantic. She was frantic. She was experiencing worry but it also seemed, judging from her expression, that she might have seen more than my doctor. If she had remained here, she would only be worried since she would have not witnessed first-hand what happened. She was well aware of what John went through and it was forcing her into overdrive from possible left overs of adrenaline. Her pulse and respirations are almost abnormal and even her little movements – twitching of fingers and quick tapping of her heels – expressed the anxiety. 

She had been there obviously. In that case, this must be Sarah.

“Sherlock Holmes I assume? John’s so- flat mate?” she corrected herself quickly, looking me over.

Only raising a skeptical brow at the woman, I nodded my head once and she gave a sigh of relief.

“Wonderful. Follow me please.” I did as she asked, seeing no relativity in postponing the visit.

Once again I was at the room 221, and I grimaced before walking in. 

John was unconscious, lying peacefully on the cot. Sarah seemed to be speaking but I didn’t pay attention, merely observing the many cords and fluids coursing in and out of John along with the vitals beeping beside him. On his shoulder was a thick bandage and when I narrowed on it, a phantom pain consumed my own shoulder and I rolled it on reflex.

A door clicking shut sounded through my ears before silence followed. This was only for a second before it buzzed once more with new questions and old ones left unanswered. The strange phantom pain certainly associated with John was on the top priorities of said questions.

I needed to perform an experiment. That was necessary at this moment.

It was the only way I could make sense of this rather unorthodox problem.

Sitting down in the uncomfortable, worn cushions of the seat, I narrowed on John’s face. He was ordinary. He was plain, as plain as they could come. Yet, he was somehow causing weird changes in my system that I could not discern as something my own mind conjured.

_Soul mate._

That phrase. Those two words that the man uttered. He thought we were soul mates. While I fail to see his logic, it was worth checking out I supposed.

In a way, I suppose it wasn’t nearly fair. At this moment, John is sleeping silently and yet… peacefully while I am here trying to figure out what exactly I felt for him. I wonder if he has even noticed or if he has and has been hiding it the entire time? If that was the case than he was causing more problems for himself than necessary!

He was a doctor so he should know. Soul mating didn’t always have to be love. It just meant you were very compatible. That’s all.

We could remain in our companionship.

Nothing would change if we were to acknowledge this apparent bond, surely?

I shook my head to disperse those thoughts.

Experiments, Sherlock. Abandon this numbing emotional banter and focus on something worthwhile.

My thoughts quieted down to a purr in the back of my mind as I vaguely noticed his even breathing and lift and fall of his chest. He was sleeping. Reaching over, I snapped my fingers a few times loudly for good measure. He didn’t stir. He wouldn’t notice if I were to experiment how far this soul mating atrocity went certainly. 

Besides, I was interrupted by an experiment at the flat so I doubt he would mind. Even with how short our time span allowed us to know each other, I’m sure he is aware of my tendency for experiments. 

He was in a deep sleep and on top of that, a thick coat of medication is running through his system. It’s not like he will know and even if he did know, he wouldn’t argue with me if I said it was purely scientific and experimental.

Probably.

Therefore, it wouldn’t be awkward to perhaps intertwine fingers with his own, correct? No. Experimentation. Pure experimentation. I could use this for future cases. This was not at all for personal reasons. I was _not_ doing this for my own personal advantage.

Definitely not. That would be absurd and against my morals and professionalism as a consulting detective.

Glancing at those stilled, course fingers long accustomed to a weapon and surgical scalpels, I decided to approach something smaller before the pure impact. I needed to advance in increments. Jumping immediately to the big spark would end rather poorly and it wouldn’t be good evidence or information.

I will have to be patient (ugh) and increase my potency in augmentations. Jumping to conclusions will only lead to mistakes and I will not have the time to redo this experiment under the same conditions.

Perhaps pain stimuli would be the best approach for now. This is mainly due to the observation that the area in which his shoulder was injured is the same spot, roughly speaking, that my vague pain is conjuring from.

Standing, I leaned over the doctor carefully. He was sleeping deeply, yes, but precautions must still be made.

I gently poked the wound and waited. I didn’t have to wait long for the same pain to come over me swiftly. The same that had previously caused me to ruin my own experiment earlier by dropping the beaker.

My hand retracted as I checked my own shoulder for a wound I knew I wouldn’t find. I hadn’t been injured. John had. Therefore, logic seemed to be completely incapable at the time. He has the injury and yet I have the faint pain of it. Perhaps it’s proximity? But if that was the case the nurse would have felt the same, not to mention I felt it all the way across London.

Not to mention the additional facets that I did not feel his shock from the crazed scientist nor the cuts that decorated John’s skin in random assortments. The bandage against his neck also didn’t bother me as far as I knew.  
It didn’t hurt to be sure, I suppose.

Gently applying pressure to the wound on John’s neck, I heard him make a noise in the back of his throat at the pain and I grimaced, coming to the conclusion that the pain only came with certain wounds.

Still, it was another factor of this scientific marvel that I found intriguing. If the next test proved a positive, it could very well be a part of the “soul mating” qualifications.

Furrowing my brows, I grabbed the hand not attached to the IV. Just touching it gently to initiate contact. 

One pulse echoed through my entire form. One very loud pulse that seemed like a light switch turning on.

And then a light hue of every color I had never seen before filled the room. Most of the hospital walls were already white, so there wasn’t much there, but I was finally able to see John for how he appeared. Blonde hair coated his head with a tan complexion. His lips were tinged pink and the wound around his shoulder red and angry. But this was only a faint color scheme.

What happened if I…?

Intertwining my fingers with Johns, I glanced around the room and colors were vibrant. They were so differential and unique. This color. This was what soul mates were supposed to see, correct? 

It was… nice seeing color I soon realized. Not just for John! But just because it was a different taste of schemes.

In the back of my mind I felt John stir but was too focused on the colors generating themselves pixel by pixel in front of me. His hand that was once relaxed grew rigid as the rest of his form. The colors seemed to waver because of this. Fascinating!

But of course, John had to wake up. And question my motives. It was what John did, not that I minded.

“Sherlock?” I glanced down at John for a moment and noticed his eyebrows were furrowed. It didn’t appear to be confusion. It felt as if he was suppressing something. Something that was clearly bothering him and not me while in this arrangement. “What are you doing?”

I scoffed in his direction and went back to the colors, “Experimenting obviously.”

“Experimenting?” John repeated softly. Wait. No, not just softly. He had uttered this with a tinge of sadness. But why would he feel sad? Furthermore, why was I bothered by the idea?

I wanted to admit that I was not bothered by this. That John being sad only spurred vocational concern for his wellbeing as my flatmate. That’s what I would have liked to admit.

But… it did bother me. Not in that soul mating way, I assure you. No. Just out of mutual companionship for a friend and case follower/blogger. If John were to have to follow me to a case later on, I didn’t want his thoughts elsewhere when he is clearly needed in the present. That was my mindset. Not soul mating. Disgusting, annoying verbal to be honest.

“John, if you are-“

“It’s nothing,” he cut off, gently pulling his hand away from my hold with a smile. It didn’t reach his eyes but I decided not to prod at it. The sigh he released appeared to express his appreciation of that action.

John was fine. He said it was nothing. If anyone knew “okay”, it would be John and his history as a doctor. I didn’t need to worry now. 

The reassurance didn’t cease the continuity of the emotion.

After a second of uncomfortable silence, John cleared his throat. He attempted to sit up but with the combination of his rueful shoulder and the medication, he eventually gave up with a loud huff. I rose a brow in his direction and he spoke again, “So, I suppose you would like to know exactly how I had gotten in this predicament, yes?” Change of topic but I decided to leave it be.

I chuckled lightly, “Yes, if you would so enlighten me.”

As I listened to John recount his memories and events regarding Jim and Sebastian, I could feel my body respond tensely. It was not by my own regard, but in reaction to the danger and pain John had succumbed to. I – as in I mentally and logically – didn’t like this visible change in atmosphere due to humane feelings. I – as in my body – didn’t like the danger John was placed in. I, overall, didn’t like being protective and oddly obsessive. It wasn’t me… entirely.

“…so they basically want you to back off of the case, Sherlock,” John concluded. He rolled his eyes when a curse escaped my lips.

“It’s nothing, Sherlock. I’m an army captain. That was nothing compared to what I have-“

“But you got hurt, John. And, at that, by my actions. How could it be nothing?” I retorted sarcastically, glaring at the wound like it was its fault it had manifested itself on the doctor’s shoulder.

John’s expression changed from surprise to flabbergasted, “And why does it pertain to you, Sherlock? Why does it really matter? You’re always saying you a machine so why does my getting hurt bother you so much?”

“I don’t know!” I exclaimed, running a hand through my hair, “It’s just something I feel and can’t understand. I am a contrivance, John, an engine or mechanism of some sort. I know I am. This is simply a virus being conjured and I want it to be gone.” Sinking into the chair, I leaned into my praying hands with a sigh. “I don’t… perform well with attachments.”

I felt bitter about the outburst almost immediately. Why did those words come off my tongue so readily, the same words that I resent mentioning at all. The infamous saying of “I don’t know”. It was foreign in my mind and even rarer in public. I saying I don’t know is against my ability to always harbor the air of knowing. It revoked my commonly known personality of not confiding my own personal issues with others.

It was against what I would usually perform. The reply I meant to say was ready in my mind. It was a simple reply, even shorter than the surge I expressed early. It was a snipped “It doesn’t matter”. 

What I said was not what I meant to say. It was the cursed heart I concealed with layers of resentment and lashes. The same heart that is not at all logical or rational. The same organ that pushes me to these weird emotions with John. The same object that is changing me and ruining my own routine.

Scoffing, I looked away. John didn’t remark on the words I spoke, but he did certainly hold a good amount of shock. 

“Sherlock…”

“It’s nothing John. Just forget about it,” I snapped at him and glared at the unappealing floor. 

John was about to reply when the door opened. Two of John’s friends, Mary and Sarah, walked in. Both women were a mixed bowl of annoyed and relieved of his situation. 

Almost as quickly as the spread of anger came over me, it was gone. I hid it behind a mask and while John still offered me pitying looks, I merely avoided their intentions. It was nothing. I wasn’t going to contradict the only pride I have left in this moment.

“Hey,” John greeted with a bashful smile although it was forced. I rolled my eyes at the display but said nothing.

“Hey?” Mary deadpanned, “Hey? Really? You come in all bloodied and hurt from God knows what and all you say to me is ‘hey’?” John cringed a little but his smile still stood. I didn’t know if he was brave or if he was being foolish in the likes of the worried and angered woman.

“I’m glad I’m okay too, Mary, thanks for asking,” he replied with a smirk and Mary’s resolve fell into a soft smile of her own. Sarah chuckled close to her and proceeded to adjust John’s vitals expertly.

As Sarah changed the bags, she added her own input, “Well, I’m sure Lucille will be glad to know you’re okay, John, if anything. She has been worried sick since the moment we found you, you know. Gave the girl a heart attack. Shame on you. I know you like being a brave soldier and all, but you’re not in Afghanistan anymore, Captain. You kind of have to put that bravery away for another day.”

John laughed a little and then froze when it seemed he actually thought of what she said. I sensed his distress and tensed as well before forcing myself to relax. This was getting out of control. Really. Stupid body. Ignorant, malfunctioning, poor excuse of a vessel.

“The others,” he looked pointedly at Sarah, “Are they okay? Toby and his brother? They didn’t get involved did they?” His hands were clenching and unclenching as he spoke this. Tendons sticking out of his hand like his skin was pinched that way on purpose.

Sarah crossed her arms, “Define involved. I mean, no they weren’t harmed. Both of them are recovering from their injuries effectively and should be out by tomorrow at the latest. As for being involved in that scare you performed-“ John waved his hand dismissively, visibly relieved.

“I don’t care of my own injuries, Sarah. I’m a doctor and a bloody good one I’d like to think! I’m pretty sure I can tell what injuries and maladies I suffer from.” He smiled at her. I chuckled softly but John didn’t hear me. Good. I didn’t want his attention diverted back to me after our previous exchange. That was… tedious. And unnecessary.

Then again, it seemed he was purposely avoiding me. I found this more in the field of interest rather than the insidel emotion of dejectedness. 

All this time he never looked at me but kept his hands away from me. I suppose he didn’t like my experiment. I don’t see why that would be the case. Did he not enjoy seeing colors as I did? His hobby, as I remember pointing out back when I first became acquainted with him, was art, or at least the past time of simple sketching. 

My lips fell into a small, confused frown.

…Why, of all things, do I remember that? It is useless information. It will never aid me in a case. Why did my mind palace stick it somewhere where I won’t be able to delete it? It was irrelevant! 

Still, I could remember everything he said in that conversation as well as what I replied clearly. Both are unimportant. Both don’t mean anything.

This is completely stupid. I hate this feeling of not knowing or – even worse – not understanding something placed on my platter for observing. 

Something wasn’t right with me. Something was altering my mechanical parts into crashing or breaking.

I would like it to stop before it rusted my capabilities. 

These emotions were like rain to my metal exterior. Each wave of the dreaded onslaught was another coat of water on my iron defenses. Too much of it and I will rust. Too much of the emotional, human rain and I will crumble and fall apart.

When I came back from my reverie, it seemed the female doctor that was speaking to John earlier, Sarah, was now leaving. John looked significantly more at ease and even spared me a smile. No, my heart did not skip a beat nor did that metaphorical notion of time stopping occurred. That would be absurd just as the creation of such presumptions. 

However, Mary was another story altogether. She was observing me. How long had she been watching me? Did she notice my internal debate or was it merely the fact that John smiled at me? She was discerning me almost like I would perceive from anybody else. If anybody else were to narrow in on her gaze, they would only detect suspicion but that wasn’t it. 

No, she held more than suspicion. I sensed protectiveness, concern, and all those petty emotions that come with caring for someone.

Did she think I was going to harm John? I must admit my argument against that factor is rather weak, but only a fool would assume that a goal as mine would infer harm to the doctor. I was not a psychopath nor any sort of sadistic ignorant. No, I was a high functioning sociopath and she greatly needed to understand such differences.

“Sherlock, is it?” When she spoke, I blinked at her slowly, waiting for another response, “May I speak with you?”

I glanced at John and he was watching me. I sensed worry in his gaze and felt the need to offer a small, almost snide, smile in his direction for his reassurance.

Oh the glory of all these emotions. 

That was entirely sarcasm.

Maybe leaving the room would be good for the both of us. For him to think over whatever bothered him and for I to have a substantially cleaner environment to rationally sort through this… nonsense.

When I stood up, I realized John may not have jumped to the same conclusions as I as to the benefits of this.

“Mary! It isn’t his fault that I am like this. I told him to leave me. You have to be crazy to chew him out for something that was clearly my fault!” he whined in her direction and a soft chuckle escaped my lips before I could pull it back. 

“Calm down, John. I just want to have a simple conversation with him. Is that so illegal? Or do you want to keep him all to your lonesome?” She smirked in his direction while John reddened significantly. Or, well, I suppose it would be reddened if color existed right now, wouldn’t it?

Silently, I followed Mary out the door. Closing the door softly behind me, I sat down in a bench close to the room. Placing my hands together, I brought them to my lips as I awaited her scrutiny.

I made no quip towards how open she actually was considering the fact that it would have lessened this impromptu and useless conversation.

“As you know, Sherlock, John was hurt saving a boy. He sent the little girl to get Sarah while sending the younger sibling brother to get water for cleansing the wounds. He was left alone with the boy and as far as I am concerned you were there at first and then gone the next. John got severely hurt and Sarah arrived just in time to save him from blood loss.” She took a deep breath and met my curious gaze head on, “Now, I’m not going to recount everything up to this moment, Sherlock. That would be tedious, wouldn’t you say? No. What I want to know is where you were?”

I didn’t hesitate. “John told you I wasn’t there. You could infer that I was at the flat, yes?”

“Yes, but I want to hear it from you.”

Closing my eyes briefly, I opened them and stared ahead at the white walls. “He sent me away. I assumed I was deemed unnecessary for I am not in the medical field nor am I socially capable of speaking with children effectively thus making the area John was excelling in contradictory to myself. I went back to the flat and awaited his return.”

Mary paused, “When you left, and I’m ranging from the moment you left the home of the siblings until now, did you feel anything strange? Like a pull?” She glanced back at John’s room, almost like she was worried he might overhear. Then she pointed at her shoulder, exactly where John got stabbed. “Or even a phantom pain?”

How did she know? How _would_ she know? She had not found her mate and I doubt she was knowledgeable in the circumstances. 

My lips thinned. Lying seemed significantly easier than facing the music she was about to play. “I felt nothing.”

Mary glared at me, “You are lying. I know you are, Sherlock. Fibbing is not exactly your area.”

“Neither is your ability to extract information effectively,” I scoffed, “Accusing me of lying won’t get us anywhere mutually.”

I was about to get up when Mary sighed, “No. Wait. There is one more thing I would like to tell you.”

Sparing a glance in her direction, I noticed a small grace of humor in her features. She was amused and yet a little concerned. Clearly not for me – the concern – but for John. The amusement was obviously in my direction. What I failed to see was what was so amusing.

“You are quite the observant fellow, Sherlock. I will give you that dignity. That being said, you are possibly the most dense and utterly blind man I have had the pleasure in meeting personally and indirectly. And for that I have some advice for you. Stop dissecting every detail in your high definition mind and look at the something… or someone… in a general, vague view. Trust me, you will be surprised with what you have found and it will be worth it. I promise you.”

With that, she smiled at me and walked away down the hall. I heard her give farewells to John on the way but I didn’t move to follow her. I couldn’t move.

View things generally? Wouldn’t that cause you to miss something? It is… defective thinking, is it not?

If it isn’t, then what have I been missing by not switching back and forth?


	16. Multihued

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm able to post two chapters today! Luckily this chapter didn't need too much editing and revising that pulled alarms. I'm not a perfect grammar professor, however, so there will still be mistakes.
> 
> And also, we are back to John's POV. I want to say chapter 19 is the closest chapter to which Sherlock's point of view will be briefly mentioned. Until then, we have this doctor to guide us of what is going on.

I swear that rubbish detective will ultimately be the death of me. Not in a metaphoric sense either. There may be some literal truth to those words that I had skipped over in signing this contract. 

Sherlock is the epitome of dense to all that disturbs the common ground of others. Well, maybe that’s too broad. It’s more like he simply didn’t care for the effects his actions had on people. High functioning sociopath my arse. He was more like a _low_ -functioning sociopath if you ask me!

Sighing angrily at the white-washed walls, I glanced at my hands. They clenched and unclenched as I flexed them through my phases of annoyance and anger. The small tubes for the IV moved as I moved and I half-heartedly glared at it. Ironically enough, I was a doctor but I abhorred being hospitalized. If I could, I would rip out the tubes and find my clothes – wherever they put them – and check myself out.

But Mary and Sarah would not hesitate to throw me back in here. With restraints this time to make sure I didn’t try to “escape”.

I stared at my hand, observed those annoying tubes but did nothing.

Removing them would result in the machine going off. The loss of a needle under my skin would make it believe I had lost my pulse and blood pressure, perhaps even a flat line in some sense. The two doctors would not hesitate to attach the IV like you would a child to keep them from ripping it off if that occurred.

Sighing, I averted my gaze to a glass of water resting on the table and picked it up. My fingers felt weak and exhausted. For a moment, I thought that perhaps it would slip through my shaking fingers and spill onto the floor but it didn’t and I managed to bring the glass to my lips without incident.

Perhaps I’ll be the good patient for a while. They really shouldn’t expect it considering the phrase “doctors are the worst patients” was not a lie.

However, I would rather not get on a doctor’s bad side. Especially those who have the power to inflict sedatives for my lack of cooperating.

So, I’m going to have to remain here. Quietly. Behaving. And, whether this was due to Sherlock or merely human relevance, bored. 

No, maybe it was Sherlock. I’ve been in a hospital room a few times and I can normally keep myself occupied. Staring outside the window or thinking about upcoming patients I’ll have to reschedule to see. Either way you have it, I wasn’t easily bored out of my mind. 

So that blasted detective had definitely done something to me. There were no if, ands, or buts in that sentence and assurance. 

On top of this, I’m flustered! Ugh, I hated this! Feeling irritated, heated, and restless. I already know why. Again, it was that stupid twat of a “consulting detective”. Experimenting? Ugh. 

I’m not an idiot. When he says it’s for an experiment, then it has to be for an experiment for there was no way he would do it on purpose just to spite me. 

Wait, would he? No. Well, maybe. Whatever! It still didn’t alter the fact that it had even occurred! I mean, is he completely numb to the effects? I know I felt them for sure! The spark, the tingle of nerves, the rather annoying and pitiful thumping of my heart.

It was the body. It was not me acting on that! It was the stupid soul mating process.

But that wasn’t what _infuriated_ me beyond belief! Was he blind?

All he took notice of were colors. I myself noticed them as well, but unlike him, I didn’t necessarily concentrate on my surroundings. My focus was instead on the detective. It was sad and pitiful, I know. Of all things to narrow my vision on, it had to be him. The pesky detective himself! 

Maybe it was because, despite his previous Monochrome hues, he was rather unique with those missing pigments being revealed.

And no, I’m not at all complimenting him. I am merely pointing out that he has more than meets the eye.

His scarf wasn’t the deep gray but this color that my subconscious filled in as blue. The name surprised me because I had never seen the color before this time. Only those hues in my monochrome vision that condensed everything to some level of similarity. 

Yet blue was the first color that made itself known. When I moved to his coat and hair, they were still the mixture of gray and black. There wasn’t anything new there. But… his eyes. 

Now, I’m not doing any of that entranced talk. I’m a bloody soldier. I’m not a pansy that will swoon at every bloke on the block. Not me. I’m stronger than that.   
I’m, again, only pointing out the obvious.

But those eyes the detective had? I could have sworn they changed color. My vision is not bad nor am I even close to old. Maybe it was the drugs in my system or perhaps I was seeing things, but those eyes were definitely not one color the entire time. They appeared to distort into a new color with each passing second and each of those said colors in those orbs were quickly named. 

I didn’t know why I knew the names of these colors. I had never seen them and when we did learn colors in school, it was by shades of gray or black or white, not with legitimate hues. That being said, I knew all of these colors like I had seen them before. Odd. Not that I was complaining! I didn’t know when would be the last time I would be able to see color at all.

Another experiment? Please. I have better chances having Sherlock blow up the flat.

But seeing these pigments also made me a little sad. Sherlock would hold as little interest discussing color as wondering about planets orbiting the sun no doubt. I had friends here at the hospital, the same ones I was currently afraid of irritating, but it would be pointless unfolding this event. I could never discuss these in detail with Mary and Sarah. 

I mean, how would you describe red or blue to someone like a Monochrome?

That’s the catch.

You can’t.

So a Monochrome would not be able to notice the differences of color in Sherlock’s eyes. I saw them as a light gray and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one! Now, I see them for what they are. They were not light gray. They were blue, a pale blue, that would change to a greenish blue and lastly to pale gold. It was magnificent and breath-taking… and certainly not at all attractive.

I could feel my face flush and cursed when, by all the bloody luck in this world, Sherlock had to come in while I was trying to cool it down.

The stoic detective didn’t as much as remark on my expression. Maybe he was thinking of a case or perhaps it was something Mary said. Whatever the reason, he certainly wasn’t quite himself. If he was he would have noted something by this point of my person. It was in his nature.

Seeing as he wasn’t going to tell me what was bothering him, I decided to ask him personally.

“Sherlock? Is there something the matter?” I paused and pursed my lips. It would be like her to “bristle his feathers” so to speak. “Did Mary tell you something?” He looked up at me for a moment and blinked slowly before shaking his head. 

_Liar._

“She did tell you something did she? Whatever she said, just let it go. She has this protectiveness for me that I’m still confused about. It’s probably nothing, Sherlock.” Once again, I got no response. 

Sighing, I dropped the topic.

Wait.

Speaking of dropping…

“Sherlock. Somebody wanted me to relay to you a message.” That caught his attention. I knew it would. It was practically cat nip to him, information on a case.

“Oh?” He replied distractedly.

I nodded. “He wants you to drop the case.”

Sherlock scoffed and I grinned. I wasn’t fooled, but it seemed whatever was bothering him before was visibly out of the picture now. Go figure. I shouldn’t have been surprised. It was typical Sherlock behavior 101.

I mean, granted I mentioned this aspect before, I’m a tad surprised he didn’t remember me doing so. I only brought it up again because I’m sure he would have wanted to know who declared such actions to be taken and apparently I was right.

“And who had the audacity to even propose such an absurdity?” an amused smirk replaced those air-drifting thoughts with scold-worthy mischief. 

“A man by the name of Moriarty.” Fumbling with the tubes, I asked out of impulse. “Do you know him?”

The detective leaned onto his fingers that had somehow clasped themselves together, “No. I haven’t the slightest idea.” He then met my eyes and I knew just from the look what he was going to pursue. It was in those eyes that I, regrettably, still want to see in color once more. 

“Shall we do a little experimenting of our own, John?”

**\---Time Skip to John Leaving the Hospital---**

I rolled my left shoulder gingerly, wincing as the muscle rejected it. Looks like I’m not going to be doing much that involves this arm and rotating in general. I hated injuries as much as the next person, but with my current involvement in the detective’s life, I found it even more infuriating. I suppose it’s nice that it’s not my dominant side but nevertheless the fact that it was even _there_ bothered me.

Sherlock, oblivious to my moment of hesitation, started walking in a direction immediately. I raced to catch him, quickly falling into step beside him.

“Where are you…? Let me rephrase that, where are _we_ going?” I rose a brow when he gave me this exasperated look as if I should know immediately. Sorry, I was not a mind reader. I don’t have the magnificent ability to telepathically pick out bits and pieces of information I wished to receive. 

Although it seemed that Sherlock wished it was so. Of course he would wish the impossible.

When it was clear I wasn’t going to somehow miraculously pick it up like some human satellite, he sighed and muttered something about “little minds” and “dull” before replying, “We are going to visit some sources, John. We cannot conduct an experiment if we don’t have the correct tools and materials to perform them with! Common sense.”

I rolled my eyes, “Common sense my arse. That’s more like common deduction.”

“Exactly. I thought you would understand it quicker,” he sounded disappointed but a glance in his direction and I was proved wrong. He was grinning! It was a small one but it was most certainly there.

“Understand it? What is there to understand? It seems like a whole bunch of rubbish you pull out of the clouds! At least, until you present the facts with it.”

“Rubbish indeed,” Sherlock mused quietly before continuing, “But speaking of facts, we really should cease this banter and meet my sources. They get antsy in a place like this.” 

I was about to question how so - and who exactly these sources were - when he took a detour into an alleyway. It was like stepping into a different realm entirely. One second we are on clean streets of bustling crowds and next we are in lanes of garbage and whatnot scouted with the homeless or the Translucent. 

This area was almost _worse_ than the Grime Zones if possible for there were no homes or community here. Only mere stragglers that came and went as time tended to revolve in an area such as this. It was saddening and it angered me. 

However, one look from Sherlock told me to keep my emotions in check.

I would have retorted. I definitely would have because I am not too fond at taking orders. At all. But, as our debate earlier consisted of, I needed to use common sense. Fighting with this twat of a detective will ultimately scare these people away like a loud clash to mice.

Biting my tongue, I let out a sigh and follow the detective. He seemed to know exactly where he was going which I suppose isn’t too surprising when judging what his profession was. Even Moriarty stated that these were his “parts”.

The first person we approached was an elderly woman. She was a normal Monochrome... not even Iridescence. She never found her mate. Shaking my head, I dashed the thoughts aside. It seemed like such a Sherlock notion to do, but I didn’t want to feel pity for her. Surely she didn’t want it. I know I wouldn’t.

“Josie,” Sherlock greeted, handing her a few notes. The old woman grasped them loosely and stuffed them in her small purse. Without saying anything, she looked pointedly at an old gentleman who was currently drinking a bottle of whiskey quite abundantly. 

Sherlock thanked the woman and began walking away. I followed quickly after him but not before turning back to see the woman look at us wistfully and a little hopeful. Whether that hope was for herself or for us I didn’t pursue. 

All the next gentleman told us was that a fellow by the name of J.B. has some information on Moriarty. After that all he said were angry grumblings and drowning swigs of alcohol to cure his sadness. He seemed particularly irritable with us and I could only assume it was our standstill status. He was a Discoloured individual after all and they don’t like Iridescence at all. Painful memories to remind them of their loss.

For the next half hour, Sherlock and I searched and searched every crevice and alleyway for J.B. We didn’t know who we were looking for. Ah, correction, _I_ didn’t know who I was looking for. Sherlock seemed to, but he didn’t seem kind enough to share at the moment. 

I kept looking around at various aged people with an even greater diversity in their emotions. Each time I thought I found him I would glance at Sherlock but he would only shake his head. It could have been a child or an adult. I didn’t even know the race and the drunkard Discoloured didn’t seem too keen upon helping my clarification.

I was about to tell Sherlock that maybe J.B. wasn’t there – maybe he was in a different area – when I heard a rustle behind me. At the specific area where we were currently scavenging, all there was behind me was a dumpster filled with god knows what along with a few stained boxes and boards. No wind jostled anything in these building encased alleys so it couldn’t have been a breeze.

As a precaution, I stood still. Not a second later another whisper of noise is heard shuffling behind one of the boards. 

Avoiding any trash that could make my presence known, I stride towards the boards and grasp one of them, the largest, and pulled it away.

Behind it was a kid of perhaps 16. He was a translucent. It was obvious in that much. Scars and scratches adorned his figure as if he had been tortured and decided to not go to a doctor to effectively heal them. 

“You are J.B. I assume?” I greeted with a chuckle, shuffling a little when Sherlock appeared next to me.

Whereas J.B. was completely stiff to me, I noticed his posture relax in the sight of Sherlock. I suppose most if not all of the homeless knew him so I shouldn’t have been shocked.   
“Mr. Holmes!” The boy cried with a grin. He was an odd one this translucent. Normally they whisper but he talked in normal volume. On top of that, it seemed he held some human qualities. In more ways than one, he reminded me of Sherlock’s case. “Oh, I thought you were the others! Bad men have been after me, sir! Very bad men.”

“Would you like to clarify?” Sherlock questioned, handing a note. The boy felt it a little in his careful fingers before slipping it in his back pocket.  
“Sure thing, sir! One was this man who had an aura a lot like your own and myself! I think I heard J.M. That’s what my instincts are telling me. Oh, and the other was this… other sort. I couldn’t tell much of him either. They were rather weird. I was hiding from them because I was afraid they would harm me.”

Sherlock looked at me and I nodded. It sounded a lot like Moriarty and his lackey, Sebastian.

“Why would they be chasing you J.B.?” 

The boy shuffled, hesitating. His voice wasn’t nearly as loud as before when he finally grasped the courage to speak, “I may know where they are heading to next. I heard it on accident I swear, sir! But I overheard that they were going to see this man in southern London. I can’t remember the address but I think it was the Desolate Fields.”

My eyes widened, “The Desolate Fields? Are you sure?” I haven’t heard that sector in quite a while. Possibly because, as the name implies, not many people inhabit there. It’s mostly a few strays that linger or those who want total and complete privacy. The lands consist of a handful of buildings, all ranging in status, with rubbish of other buildings surrounding it. I myself have never been there but I have heard it is quite the bad neighborhood.

The boy looked at me for a moment, judging me in a way that resembled Sherlock’s own scrutiny, before nodding. “Yes sir. I would never lie.”

“Thank you J.B.” Sherlock handed a few more notes and made his way back whence we came. I didn’t bother asking questions this time. I knew where we were heading.

Out of habit, I glanced behind me at J.B. and he had the most passive face. Considering how well he knew Sherlock, I didn’t know if it was a poker face or an expression of satisfaction. He just watched us without blinking. I turned back, unsettled by the boy’s mien. 

This was only a case to find this Moriarty fellow, wasn’t it? Yes. It couldn’t be anything other than that.

We were on a hunt after all and Sherlock was practically the bloodhound and I the simple master to let him go.

But the countenance the boy contrived made me wish I had a tighter leash.

**OoOoOoOoOoOo**

It wasn’t necessarily hard finding the house J.B. spoke of. Fairly easy actually. For one, in the South London Desolate Fields, or SLDF for short, there are only two houses left standing after the years of torrent and torture. One of them was clearly habited compared to the other one so Sherlock and I both approached the home with caution.

At this point it was well past the night hour. The moon shown above us brightly as we crept. We were careful not to be directly in its shine in case the criminal’s peered out the window. Keeping to the shadows of rubble and choked homes, it only took a few minutes to reach the intended destination.

When we got to the door, Sherlock held out his hand, stopping me. We were right and by the looks of it, Moriarty and Sebby hasn’t left yet. 

When our ears attempted to decipher the conversation, it was definitely...interesting to say the least.

“No Sebby! We can’t simply leave him there! Or at least, if we do, we have to make him a creative spectacle! Gosh. It’s like you have never been in an art class, Sebby!”

“I haven’t been, Jim.”

“Psh. That’s a poor excuse. Now, are we going to hide the body or will we make it worth their visit?”

“I still think hiding it is better.”

“How so?”

“It gives the Yard more time before they point suspicions.”

Silence followed with an “I suppose when it’s like that it is correct to assume that. But nonetheless, I’m the boss, yes? I think creativity is greatly depreciated in criminal murders therefore we should choose that one.”

“Fine… whatever you say. Let’s just hurry before anybody comes in.”

Sliding of fabric and a few grunts followed with a curse was all we heard after that. Backing away, I look at Sherlock and opened my mouth. Sherlock shook his head.

“No questions,” he whispered. “Don’t have the time.”

“But why can’t we go in there? I’m sure we are able to distract them at the very least,” I pressured and Sherlock gave me a look.

“You were a captain, John. Tell me how many flaws your plan has just executed.” I thought it over and grimaced. He was right. Too many variables. The percentage of them getting away was too large compared to us capturing them. “Oh, and not to mention your gun isn’t with you.”

Glaring at the detective, I patted my pockets to find it gone. I was sure I had it or grabbed it from my desk when I left the hospital. Certain of it actually. When I met Sherlock’s gaze again, he was smirking. A legitimate smirk. The twat. He took it didn’t he? 

Of course he would.

Reaching into his Belstaff coat pocket, he retrieved the pistol and tossed it to me. I caught it easily and scoffed at him with a shake of my head. My body betrayed me though when a grin escaped. Damn it.

“We may have to run and if there is anything I have learned from those rubbish American CSI shows, it’s that they fail to shoot the runner in the leg. Take notes of that for it may become useful.” Rolling my eyes at the fact that he watched American shows to begin with, I nodded in his direction.

“Good.” With that he motioned me to get against the wall and to stay. After that he didn’t hesitate to turn a 180 and walk right into the home of the newly deceased individual.

Crouching in front of a window, I peeked over it to keep tabs of Sherlock. 

“Oh, Sherlock. Nice of you to join us! Have you finally come to join the dark side?” Moriarty greeted. Sebastian stiffened, before turning around and adjusting the fag in his mouth. A knife spun idly in between his fingers.

A humorless chuckle rang out, deep and melodic, “I am here merely out of curiosity, not to join this metaphorical and stereotypical dark side you speak of. In fact, I was wondering if you would give me some information - Particularly about me dropping the case?” Sherlock’s hands slipped behind his back. Almost like he knew I would be looking at them, he signaled me to cover him. 

He didn’t need to tell me twice.

“I see your little pet has given the message to his master successfully,” Moriarty chuckled. He leered towards Sherlock like a slinky, getting closer and closer until he was no less than a foot apart. “That’s good. I hope you listen as well as your pet does.”

Sherlock scoffed at the man, “If you know me so well, you know I’m not too fond following orders. Tell me to stop tailing a case and it’s only going to increase the temptation. You of all professions should know this. Or have you chosen the wrong one?”

A snarky grin appeared on the criminal’s face, “If we are going to play that game, I might as well bring out my own cards! I’ve been planning it for a while, you see, and your response was exactly the one I was looking for.” Nodding at Sebastian, I noticed the lackey continuing his work on the body as Moriarty circled Sherlock with slow steps.

“You see, in this world, boredom is sadly a constant. It’s not a variable. It’s not a neutral. I’m using your scientific terms by the way, Sherlock, I hope you can understand.” Moriarty snickered to himself before continuing in a booming tone. “I myself succumb to this often and… I believe you do too, don’t you?” Sherlock didn’t respond, but I could feel the aura of curiosity and anticipation rolling off of him. “I have five objectives. Five little tasks to keep the both of us from this boredom. It’s simple really.” Moriarty waggled five fingers in front of Sherlock’s face childishly.

“The catch?” Sherlock quipped and Moriarty grinned.

“The catch? Oh that was quick! There is always a catch, Lockie. I create the objectives for one. I am the master mind behind it. Secondly, because having two of us is clearly not a good thing, it’s a pity to say one of us will have to sacrifice. Simple. See? Those are easy terms?”

After speaking the rules, Moriarty backed off. Sebastian soon joined him. Getting close to the door, Sherlock scoffed.

“Are you going to leave?” 

“Is that a rhetorical question?” Moriarty responded with a smile before flicking off the lights. Everything went black for a moment but I could hear a distinct click of a door. “Oh, and your little pet can come out too!”

When the lights were turned back on, Sherlock was staring at the door, clearly not amused. 

“Blast it all,” he muttered as I walked up to him.

Rolling my eyes, I tugged on his wrist towards where we entered, “Yeah, yeah. Tell me all about it at the flat. Come on. We really should leave before the Yard arrives or you will be their number one suspect. Anderson will be thrilled with that.”

“Please. I’m sure if I was here they still wouldn’t think that far ahead,” Sherlock replied but followed nonetheless. It didn’t take long for him to stride ahead of me. It was more so on purpose than anything.

I didn’t know if it was the colored genes or just the comradery I felt towards Sherlock, but I was uneasy. I felt this game wasn’t going to end well as Moriarty promised quickly. It could be for Sherlock or Jim. I had a lot of faith in Sherlock’s skills but Moriarty was neck and neck with him no matter how much I tried to discern them from the other. 

No matter what happens, I would place my own life before his own. I was only a simple doctor after all. I’d rather my loss occur than the loss of a dense, childish, and yet brilliant detective.


	17. Undiluted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working on this new Johnlock idea. It's a pirate AU sort of thing. I might post it here (not ff.net) eventually once I have a few chapters down... 
> 
> I'm going to attempt to post a chapter a day for this story, however, if I do miss a day I'm going to attempt Tuesday and Fridays at least. On the bright side, for those who read my stories on FF.net, I finished A Detective for a Muse so I will have a few more hours of free time.

**\----Flash forward a few weeks since JM encounter----**

Much to the dismay of Sherlock, the murders all ceased soon after our encounter with Moriarty. I didn’t know if this was due to that meeting or simply because he didn’t feel the need to murder anyone. Maybe every single criminal is taking a break. Maybe they are all planning their next kills as I think. Whatever it is, the cases have dwindled down to none for the past weeks. 

It has been taking its toll on Sherlock for sure and that’s putting it lightly.

I was well aware that when a case wasn’t present, or even when there was and he had to wait, Sherlock got annoyed. It was more like he got increasingly agitated at the simplest of endeavors or _“stupid and obvious”_ mistakes. It was understandable for him if not childish. 

Nonetheless, his agitation seemed to affect anyone and everyone around him much to my dismay.

One such case was while I was curled up on the couch, a small sketchbook in my lap and a pencil in between my fingers. I was doodling again for it was the only aspect I decided to spend time in, and it was also the easiest habit to past time. Thank god this flat was a mess (and I would never expect to say _that_ unless in this context). It seemed that while I was away at the hospital a few weeks back, Sherlock had returned home and cleared off the sofa whilst in the search for something or another and kind of scattered the boxes elsewhere in this messy room. 

I didn’t understand how he was able to maneuver in this debris, but I suppose I didn’t understand him much to begin with. Nonetheless, I was able to pick a box of science supplies – such as dirty beakers and flasks – and was able to set them up for a still life.

I was in the middle of shading one of the beakers when Sherlock deliberately placed his hand over my drawing, ceasing my actions. I glanced at him, my brows furrowed. What could he possibly want now? I've already made several trips to the morgue for body parts of all things as well as the nearest TESCO for milk (because apparently Sherlock uses that like its air). What else is there?

If he wasn't telling me to go somewhere that he saw important, then it must be something else. 

And then my face smoothed out as I knew what this was about. I did say his agitation affected everyone in direct vicinity. I should have known this was coming. Perhaps I should have just gone to my room and drawn this. No doubt the first word he was going to say is – 

“Bored.”

Exactly.

Closing the sketchbook cover, I leaned on the arm of the sofa, sparing a look at Sherlock. I was not amused in the disruption. Far from it for drawing had actually allowed me to go through my skull and all that has happened. In fact, I was quite at peace and tranquility drawing before he decided to throw his irritated aura around. 

“Bor-“

“Yes, I get that Sherlock. You have been saying this every bloody hour of every day,” I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose in annoyance, “Go do some sort of experiment. I know you have plenty to start.”

_God only knows how many heads, limbs, and fingers I brought back from the morgue for this purpose._ I thought with disbelief.

Sherlock paced in front of me, shaking his head, “You never seem to approve of my experiments.”

I laughed. “And when has that ever stopped you before?”

Sherlock gave me a look before repeating that abhorred word. “Bored.”

“Take a nap!” I threw out there, but the look I got from Sherlock in return could shrivel a leaf.

“A nap?” he seethed. “Sleeping in itself is tedious and completely boring. Not to mention that dreaming is even more useless. That’s what remaining awake and thinking are for. If the only time you ponder ideas is in your sleep, then clearly you are incapable of adjusting while being awake.”

“Alright! I get it. I get it.” I raised my hands in defeat and tossed another idea to hopefully appease the finicky detective. “How about you phone your brother? I’m sure he would love for you to take one of his cases.”

Another look. Clearly the both of them suffered from some sort of brother complex that forbade them from being even _close_ to each other. Sherlock's expression all but shouted the refusal to such a thought as phoning his brother for some sort of boredom relief.

I shrugged in his direction and gave up. With all the luck I’m having in curing his boredom, I doubt my ideas will help any if not infuriate him more. I might as well let him rant it off or do whatever it is he figured out to perform in his free time.

Opening my sketchbook again, I decided to just ignore the prat and return to my drawing. For having such a big head, he doesn’t seem to know how to use it properly! Sheesh. Deduct a murderer? Fine. Figuring out what to do with one’s own time? Not so much. He was lost without work it seemed.

The eraser slid over and erased the line I just made with an annoyed grumble escaping my lips. Wrong. Not long enough and it needs to be curvier. However, no matter how many times I attempted the same part there was always something off.

My previous aura of peace was heavily disturbed from Sherlock, making everything I did not nearly good enough or simply not to my liking. I sighed as I twisted the pencil in my fingers, twirling it aimlessly.

I felt a twinge of loss and bitter resentment for the pencil I carried so gingerly in my fingers. Not for it being incapable as a tool, but because of the color it represented. Since it was an ordinary writing utensil and not a colored pencil, the color it exhibited was the correct one. Nonetheless, I wanted to see color again. It was selfish of me, but I couldn’t deny that those little moments of hues and pigments were one of the best moments of my life thus far. 

Well, perhaps besides meeting the man who broke my tedious lifestyle from its course.

Tilting my pencil, I sized the shape of the flask I decided to draw to my paper. After outlining it, I began the lightest shades of gray for shading.

When I felt a dip in the couch and a faint brush of warm air over my shoulder, I knew Sherlock had resolved to merely watching me draw. I had no idea why. The man wasn’t really too fond in art at all. 

No, he didn’t hate it – he did hold some level of appreciation I suppose – but he didn’t get it. It was just pictures in his point of view. He didn't necessarily get the message any of the paintings or drawings told, but I suppose that wasn't too surprising.

So I was confused with his actions even though I didn't show it. He wasn’t a hindrance. Wait, no. That was a lie. He was definitely a hindrance. How would you feel if you had someone constantly breathing over your shoulder and watching every move you make like it was some new discovery? If you didn’t feel a twinge of nervous anxiety or even the most subtle bits of embarrassment, then you are lying. It was awkward, but I tried my best to ignore him.

At least he wasn’t saying he was “bored” again which was a miracle in itself.

He was just being a prat. He was just trying to attract my attention. That was all. I can play it "cool". I’m a bloody soldier for God’s sake. Please, I can handle a little childish detective observing my sketches.

Easy.

Well, at least it was until he decided to ask questions. I expected them – it was Sherlock we are talking about – but again I saw no point. In general terms of what he once told me, his mind palace, or whatever you call it, only holds information he held important to him and his cases. Any questions regarding what I was doing certainly wouldn’t aid him, right?

It wasn't the first time I had questioned his motives since the hospital incident. Several times a day at least I would find Sherlock doing something strangely abnormal - and that was saying something considering who he was. I would brush it aside, for he was a rather defensive prick, but the thought that he was acting odd defintiely remained.

Sherlock seemed to be growing vague in who he was since I couldn't pin down exactly what was going on. It could be a phase or perhaps something in his mind messing with his process, but for the life of me I didn't understand what could do that to him. 

Pointing to the flask, particularly the darkest part, Sherlock asked, “How do you know what shade it is without colors? Without the hues? It seems rather… redundant if you will.”

Blinking back to what I was currently drawing, I placed the pencil down and stretched out my fingers from being cramped against the wood.

Shifting a little on the sofa, I replied matter-of-factly. “I wouldn’t expect you to know. I mean, you are always into all those cases and experiments, but art is not run by the same principles. You don’t need color to draw something.” I paused before adding reluctantly, “Although it would be nice. Another aspect to make art better or have more impact.”

Sherlock didn’t reply to the statement. Perhaps he had lost interest in my work? I doubted it. I could just _feel_ the air and it was exclaiming all the questions he apparently wanted to ask this very moment instead of waiting for an opportune time. 

“Would you like to… see it?” The question was hesitant. Blinking at the man, I tilted my head in confusion.

“Would I like to see what, Sherlock?” I retorted, rolling my eyes, “You complain of how bored you are? Please. I think the entire world knows that, or at the very least, everyone in this building.”

Sherlock glared at me before sighing and laying his hand on my arm. As was the hospital case, the impact was immediate. Just the contact itself sent a jolt through me. My heart felt like it was beating faster than it should and I felt oddly light headed. I didn’t like this feeling needless to say.

But, that didn’t mean I didn’t enjoy the effects. The simple contact, although the bond wasn’t that strong at the moment, allowed me to see the lightest hue of each and every color. Or what I assumed to be every color. It was hard to tell when all you have seen was black, white, and gray all your life.

“Color,” Sherlock clarified when I gave no response, “Would you like to see color, John?”

_Is that a rhetorical question_ I grumbled silently, battling what I want with what I should probably do.

It probably wouldn’t hurt. It’s fairly obvious Sherlock doesn’t feel any sort of affection towards me. It will just be for… testing purposes and personal curiosity. Another experiment for his notes on color and the soul mating concept.

_Denial_ A voice chimed in my head and I sighed heavily.

A part of me wanted to accept the contact because, as I pointed out before, it wouldn’t hurt me. I mean, perhaps in some genetic way it would but not physically. But then there was the _why_ that followed suit.

Why did Sherlock suddenly care about my wanting to see color? Why did he want to see color? Why was he so adamant about it even though I am absolutely 99.99 percent positive he knows the effects on my average person? Why this. Why that. God this blasted detective is only whys!

And yet, after a moment of hesitation and this internal banter, I still nodded. 

“Fine. But no more than a minute or so,” I thinned my lips when he gently tugged my hand away from my sketchbook, leaving my knee to prop it up as he intertwined his fingers softly with my own. A stronger shock resounded through my nerves and it felt as if I was going to be electrocuted with the current. A minute later it softened to a buzz and then to nothing but skin-on-skin contact.

It was amazing and that didn’t even do it justice.

Color was… It was _color_. That was the best way I could put it. How do I describe reds and blues to an individual who hasn’t seen color? It was impossible! Trying to would only depreciate the fact! Even describing color to a person who has seen color was impossible because that’s how everyone describes everything else – with color.

So of course when every possible pigment in the air and flat made itself known like some bright pop art piece, I smiled wildly and couldn’t hold back the spurt of laughter. Call it childish glee or even euphoria, but it was just breath-taking. All the colors that we have been abstained from! If color was a drug, then I might as well be an addict for all it was worth.

Beside me, Sherlock was confused but also giving off a small, but visible smile of his own.

I nudged him, my picture all but forgotten, “What are you so happy about? Experiment gone successful?” I felt giddy like the hues were fumes and I was getting high off of it.

Sherlock shook his head, “I feel off and I’m not… completely sure what it means. It’s rare, but I don’t understand this feeling of happiness. I suppose that’s what it is, yes? It’s quite the foreign experience but not entirely disliked.”

At this moment, I kind of… sympathized with Sherlock. No, it wasn’t pity. It wasn’t because I was in the same boat as he was. The only difference was that I understood why I felt this sudden euphoria or I would have liked to admit that I did. 

_Should I bring up the bond?_ I thought as I aimlessly lead my eyes from one color to the next. _Would it aid in his coming to terms with it? If he hadn't already._

_Or_ I thought bitterly and fearfully _Would it only push him further away? Would it end our comradery entirely?_ I was afraid for that reason. Sherlock, as I have been claiming time and time again, was not a relationship friendly man. He was a science and mental man. He goes with his head more so than his heart. I am the opposite.

So the second I attempted to possibly push him to use both, I was wary that he would push me away and any bond or friendship we had gathered in the process.

“Sherlock, I-“ A knock on the door interrupted my possible confession. Looking at each other for a moment, I shrugged and called out.

“Yes? You may enter!”

For a while, nobody entered the flat. I almost thought that whoever was there was now gone. Eventually, the doorknob turned slowly and silently. When it opened, Lucille was standing there, clearly nervous and embarrassed.

“Am I interrupting anything?” she whispered, adding quickly after that, “I just had some information about that man from earlier and I heard that your… friend was a detective and I thought maybe-“ 

She squeaked when Sherlock immediately jumped off the couch, a grin on his face. His hand ripped out of mine and the color left with it. I didn't let it get to me. This was Sherlock so I expected it from the beginning.

Putting aside the sketch, I rose from my seat and made my way to the kitchen to prepare some tea while Sherlock retrieved the stool he kept specifically for clients or informants. 

When I returned, I realized how much Sherlock may need some common knowledge on personal space.

Lucille was holding her knees to her chest on her stool, staring wide eyed at Sherlock as he leaned forward, his hands in their classic pose. Those eyes, which have been scorched blue in my mind, narrowed at Lucille as if he was scrutinizing her. I noticed her shivering a little and a sigh escaped my lips. To think I sympathized with him earlier.

Walking up to my chair, I gently tugged Sherlock back. He complained, of course, but I ignored him. Lucille looked at me gratefully.

“Sherlock. There is such a thing as getting too close. I swear, I don’t think getting right up to them is going to make them confess any sooner or easier.”

“On contrary,” Sherlock spoke with a satisfied smirk, “It actually does. Intimidation and a common aura of fear combines with your mind wanting to perform almost any motive to relinquish that combination.” 

“Smart alec,” I grumbled before adding louder, “Well, Lucille isn’t keeping information from you, is she? She came here on her own accord, remember? Therefore, your intimidation is unnecessary.”

"Really, John-"

"Sherlock," I deadpanned and Sherlock scoffed but said nothing else.

A small tinkling laughter, similar to a wind chime, rang out and Sherlock and I ceased our bickering. When we looked in the direction of the sound, we came in contact with Lucille. She was stifling her laughter behind one small hand.

Sherlock sulked, not seeing what was so funny clearly. I didn't even see what was funny. I rolled my eyes and ignored his childish antics.

“What’s so funny?” I questioned nevertheless, curious myself.

“You two!” she answered, her voice almost normal volume. “The way you act around one another is almost like soul mates do. It’s actually amusing and a little… cute if you will.” She smiled warmly, but Sherlock and I merely froze, avoiding each other’s gaze effectively.

I coughed a little, “Um… the case! You were here for the case, right Lucille?” This room desperately needed a topic change. I swear the room, or at least Sherlock and I, dropped ten degrees at the mentioning of soul mates. 

Lucille was confused over the change in topic but seemed to shrug it off.

“Where should I start?” She asked softly.

“Specifically the most useful pieces of information,” Sherlock answered and I glared at him.

"Okay,” She paused, seemingly unfazed by Sherlock's attitude. “I’ve been hearing of his whereabouts. Mostly with a scientist I think they said, but that’s not all I heard, or rather all I felt. I fear he isn’t just… part violent and part monochrome. Actually, my instincts are telling me he is something possibly worse.”

Sherlock and I were silent but I knew we were thinking the same question: What was worse than a Violent Vicinity member? Especially a hybrid?

“What did those voices whisper to you, Lucille,” Sherlock interrogated. I glanced at him in confusion.  
Voices? She never mentioned any voices in her question or in her statement for that matter. How would he know about these voices unless… He must be suffering from those same aspects from his Translucent diffusion. I didn’t know whether to see this as beneficial or slightly worrying.

“They breathed words such as Pallor and Rubicond. The hissed phrase that connected both words. A Rubicond advancing to a Pallor field. Not alone. Very few uttered anything I knew. Perhaps you do?”

For once since the color experiment, Sherlock looked on the brink of euphoria. It could only mean one thing. Well, actually two to be precise. The first was that he knew exactly what she was talking about. The second was that now he was definitely not bored. Far from it and I wanted to give a sigh of relief at that.

“Stop giving that look,” I rolled my eyes while Sherlock looked at me with confusion. Lucille blinked as well although due to her race she was blind so she probably didn’t know what I was speaking of.

“What look?” He prompted, leaning back and raising a brow.

I laughed. “You know _exactly_ what look I’m talking about! That expression of _I-Know-Everything-And-You-Are-All-Mindless-Idiots_ that you seem to have when you know something that we do not.” Sherlock opened his mouth, but I cut him off, “Don’t try to deny it! I’m human, Sherlock, not blind.”

Deriding over my words, Sherlock scoffed in reply, shaking his head. “Please. You have exaggerated the expression, John. I save that one specifically for the Yard or, if set for a singular individual, Anderson. The look I’m giving now is of pure satisfaction and/or enjoyment of knowing information that makes rational sense. I suppose if your little mind wasn’t rolling with art and whatever it is you think about, you would also be reveling in this emotion.”

Lucille looked rather confused and I myself realized I was going to get nowhere. 

“I’m sorry we can’t all experience and inhabit the same mind that you have, Sherlock. We are all only mortal and human compared to your intellect,” I remarked with sarcasm dripping off every word.

“It’s perfectly fine, John. Now, the case. I assume that you want me to fill in?” Sherlock completely brushed aside – or didn’t identify – the heavy laced sarcasm I meant for him. Of course he would. This was a case. Actually, to him this might as well be the beginning of the dangerous game he and Moriarty took on.

“Oh, are you offering?” I mocked him. When he didn’t reply and wouldn’t look at me, I relented a sigh, “Yes. I would like to know. Isn’t it obvious, Sherlock?”

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock leaned onto his prayer-like stance and spoke clearly but quickly. He probably wanted to get to the case more than trying to discuss what he thought we should know.

“The Saturation Sorority,” he began. I was about to remark about the name but a look from the detective hushed my banter of its ridiculousness. “You remember the Sepia Order, don’t you John? You were captured by them after all – albeit briefly – and it was our first case as a…”

“Team?” I offered and he grimaced before nodding.

“Team…” he spoke slowly before continuing, “The Saturation Sorority is much like that organization except they don’t care of the color spectrum. It’s just another aspect or variable in their eyes from what I have gathered. So, in terms of danger to the local populace divided by Monochrome and Iridescence and all the other races of this world, it’s not a hatred towards color and therefore not towards them.

“What they do want is a overthrowing of the system. They don’t believe it is at its best or it’s fairest although their own methods are far from what we need and would only serve to make it worse. Nonetheless, they want a hierarchy created with their kind on top.”

“Kind?” I questioned. “There’s different types?”

“Yes, although I do not know much about the qualities they have, I am very aware of the names themselves. Primarily, there are the Rubicond and the Pallid. One is mental and the other is physical. From there, if a Pallid or Rubicond were to advance on will, they can be a Dusky or a Pallor – another mental and physical group of greater knowledge and power.”

“So, in general terms, another group who wants to be on top of the world?” I spoke and Sherlock smirked.

“Precisely.”

“Wonderful,” I sighed and glanced apologetically at Lucille. Apparently I didn’t need to because she wasn’t even fazed by our discussion. If anything, she looked more at ease. Perhaps finally knowing something in your thoughts would be a plus.

A knock at the door caused us all to jump. Opening the door, Mrs. Hudson peeked around for a bit before meeting our combined gaze with a smile. 

“Someone is at the door, dears. He’s here for you two.”

I knew Sherlock wouldn’t abandon Lucille and the information she still had to reveal. So without argument, I stood and followed Mrs. Hudson down the stairs to the door.

I froze when I saw the man who awaited me.

Just my luck. Bloody hell.

“Mrs. Hudson, you can go back to your flat. Thank you for telling us, or we probably would have never heard it,” I gratified and she smiled before shuffling back to her flat.

The man in front of me definitely wasn’t another client. For one, they would have been directed to our door. I already knew who he was and that made me glad that he didn’t take advantage of Mrs. Hudson or whoever he came into contact with.

Crazed eyes looked me up and down with a tilt of his head.

The American grinned at me when I glared back. He seemed pleased to find his experiment. I wasn't sad to say that I didn’t reciprocate that feeling.

“What are you-“ I flinched when a sharp pain in my side followed with a feeling of drowsiness and lethargy. When the scientist pulled back his hand, he had a syringe in his palms, twirling it between his fingers. I cursed to myself though it sounded like complete rubbish with my lead tongue.

Before I could hit the ground, hands caught me with a faint hum in response to my attempt of a question.

_“A scientist never leaves any experiment unfinished.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are directly from the notes I wrote for the subgroup below, hence why they are long.
> 
> I mentioned the Saturation Sorority so I'm going to explain the parts of their group real quick. Sherlock already explained the goal of the group so I don't have to go into detail there.
> 
> Rubicond - these ar the mentally advanced corps. Due to extensive testing and constant advancements, their faces have gained a red color. This is mainly for all the information they have and the capacity in their head they are willing to use. They can't read minds nor telepathy, but they are quick to crack codes and figure people out by process of elimination.
> 
> Pallid - These are the physically advanced corps. They test, but because they do it inside buildings at all times and out of the sunlight, they are very pale. They have a very muscular form, but the pale skin they have makes them less appealing than most of their stature should be. Very strong. Very brutal. Hate holding back.
> 
> Dusky - a special zone for those who excel in both. When this occurs they have a choice t become a Dusky or a Pallor. A Dusky is aimed to become best in shooting and combat. They don't have the red face of the Rubicond nor the paleness of the Pallid. Instead, depending on their location, they are said to have a very distinct dark color to their skin like dirt absorbed into their pores. This depends on the individual of course.. These people are dangerous and they snipe very well. Often a partner to a Pallor.
> 
> Pallor - Pallor is the other option if you wish to go with a more mental route. They pursue in characterization, planning, and deduction. They are well known to figure you out quickly and always be two steps ahead of you. They often are very smug and dramatic, but it varies from person to person. They are very pale but due to their constant mental change, their eyes have altered tremendously. Their eyes are a gold but can be covered with a faint blue with gold accents. Very tricky. Very hard to get to. Often in assistance with a Dusky.


	18. Lambent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I decided Friday's and Tuesday's will definitely be my schedule. When school begins, seeing as I am a senior in high school which kills me, I may have to alter this schedule. Still, there will be semi-frequent updates for this story.

**\-- JOHN POV –**

_Not again. I swear, how many people are going to wish to keep kidnapping me in some level of sadism just to get to Sherlock? I know this is all to attract his attention. It has to be! And apparently I’m now being dubbed the newest damsel in bloody distress. I’m not some sodding weakling that can just be picked up and thrown around!_

_This is not what I signed up for when I met Sherlock Holmes._

Opening my eyes, I blearily looked around to what appeared to be a laboratory. Well, no, not what appeared to be a laboratory. There was no doubt that it was. Definitely more like one than the last warehouse I was held captive at. This one had everything from medical supplies (IV machines, ECG, etc.) to chemical tools (Bunsen burners, flasks, and beakers). Definitely an upgrade from before. Congratulations.

From what I could see, on one side of the room was a lengthy piece of glass clearly used for observation. At the end of the same wall was a door, possibly steel, that had a keypad on it. Well, I wasn’t going to be getting out of here anytime soon, will I?

If there was another door in this room, I was unable to see it. Granted that it would make sense considering the scientist would have to have some method of leaving this lab. 

Isn’t this just _peachy_?

Oh, the sarcasm hurts.

Glancing up at the ceiling, I noticed an air vent. Well, I suppose if I got desperate that was one way I could escape. Granted I doubt it was nearly as easy or comfortable as the movies portray.

A small tug at my left wrist resulted in tubes brushing my skin ever so lightly. No doubt I was being attached to an IV line to monitor the vital signs. 

_“Because every scientist needs to monitor their experiments expertly, John.”_ Sherlock’s voice echoed in my head. Even my own mental version of him was exasperated with my normal brain. 

_Well, I’m sorry that I can’t deduce people by some minuscule detail, Mr. Smart Alec. I was under the assumption that I would be, oh I don’t know, dissected or whatever by this point? Thinking of what a scientist does always is not one of my top priorities. I’m a doctor. I’m not a scientist. There **is** a difference I can assure you. _

My head banged against the back of whatever I was attached to as I groaned.

_Oh wonderful. I’m arguing with myself. This is certainly a sign that I am mentally adept in my situation._

Pushing the thoughts out of my head, I decided to focus on my annoying and humiliating status of an “Individual in angst and sorrow”, which, for the record, I definitely _did not_ categorize myself as. I was quite level-headed on the contrary. 

Why did it have to be distress anyways? It seemed almost like a stereotype applied to any kidnaped victim and yet not every victim is distressed. Such is the case in Stockholm’s syndrome. 

Tangents, John. You need to observe your surroundings like you set out before. 

Blinking slowly, I looked to my right and noticed another machine. It was almost an exact replica of the IV on my left except it was transfusing a substance into my veins instead of merely monitoring. The fluid was ink black and when I followed the tube to where the injection was taking place, I cringed mentally at the obvious discoloration in my skin from the abnormal substance. 

Whatever was being injected was already beginning to affect me.

I didn’t bother moving my limbs. One reason was the blatantly obvious. I was bonded to the gurney in metallic clamps that were probably pressure controlled by the American scientist. Said clamps were adhering me to the gurney around my neck, ankles, and wrists. I wasn’t going to be leaving as long as they were applied, discernibly. 

The second was a physical observation that I could have noted without opening my eyes. Besides the pins and needles gathering in every crevice and inch in my limbs, I noticed a very potent amount of weight. It felt as if I was slowly turning to metal, the liquid solidifying my muscles into bars of steel. They were so heavy that running (or climbing if you count the air ducts) was out of the question.

_God damn it_ I cursed mentally.

Or at least I thought I did. When I heard the echo bounce off the walls, it seemed very clear that I, in fact, did not keep such lovely pleasantries in my head. Oh, woe is me.

And who would come slinking in at my call?

“Hello, Dr. Watson.” 

I narrowed my eyes at the man in a grey-splotched lab coat, grinning at the catch he made. His eyes twinkled in delight and fascination. Why would he dare be fascinated by this predicament? There was nothing remotely mesmerizing where I was being held captive.

But he was bloody sadistic so why should I try to rationalize this?

When I finally opened my eyes wider to grasp the larger image, I grimaced and held back a moan. It felt like everything was suddenly moving in circles, alternating from color to Monochrome and back. It was worse than being stuck in a tornado or being sucked in a whirlpool for God knows how long. It was nauseating and I had to close my eyes tightly to keep any resemblance of dignity within me.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the black substance did this to me. There must be a chemical reaction that altered the genes or something similar. I couldn’t know for sure. I was strictly clinical and, occasionally, surgical. This was not in my area of expertise.

The best shot I had at figuring it out was to wait it through and by then I didn’t know how I would be.

“I see that you have become aware of the current metamorphisms occurring in your body, doctor. Magnificent, isn’t it?” The man grinned cheekily, or so I imagined considering I still was against opening my eyes a smidgeon. Why did it take so long for the effects to hit me? I was able to view the room in perfect Monochromism and yet the second it hit him, I was suddenly thrown into a different loop where my equilibrium was knocked off. “I’m sure you have been awake for a while now and are confused about your situation, yes? Well, in theory, I planned to give you one dose in increments to test the serum in your body, but I didn’t feel like waiting thus leading to why there is a constant amount being injected. It seems your body has enough now to finally begin the changes.”

I choked up a scoff at that. Taking slow breaths, I awaited the nausea to pass before asking, “Who are you?”

He didn't respond immediately. When I squinted my eyes open, I decided to not narrow on one separate subject. Perhaps if I just see everything without seeing it then this sickness would be more bearable.

The scientist was pacing in front of my gurney, hands in his pockets and leaning back, “Oh wouldn’t you like to know! I mean, I would love to tell you but I am under strict negotiations from the boss. These lips won’t utter a single name referring to myself.”

I rolled my eyes and regretted the action. Pain shot through my skull like a knife between my eyes. I cursed under my breath.

“Then how about color since that has been your subject for so long,” I derided at the man. He didn’t seem to notice my tone and smiled brightly, as if I was actually participating in his eager madman theories of color. That would be met with a strict denial. I was merely preventing the inevitable at this point.

That is, unless Sherlock was on his way.

Who I am partially blaming for this entire mess. I say partially because I did follow the high effects of adrenaline with a craving for more. My heart did take that familiar leap that comes with a new mission to take part in. Feet were quick and stealth. Hands ready and, for once, steady. Mind sharper than any procedure before allowed it to be. 

My "captain" persona had been received with gratitude on its part and I did nothing to stop its eager leap.

But, it was still Sherlock's fault for volunteering for such an endeavor.

I sighed and the scientist paused. Apparently he had been talking and I didn’t pay attention. The furrowed brow only served to emphasize his annoyance. It was with that look that I caught onto a glint. It was quick but definitely there. 

A glint to suddenly plunge everything he had into his subject just to see how it _worked_. 

I grimaced internally. Despite my aggravations at my current situation, I did not want to forgo any situations of anger with the color madman. Said color was currently spurring off of him like roots for infection and that only aided in making the pain in my skull escalate, making thinking numb and dislocated.

No, I needed him calm and fascinated. In fact, I should have probably aimed to keep him occupied. That would be best. Away from the coursing beast in him, whatever it may be, and towards the compliant, yet mental unstable, man in front of me.

“I’m sorry,” I apologized, forcing my teeth away from their clenched position to sound normal and sincere. “I didn’t catch on to what you said earlier. I only sighed because I couldn’t hear you. I’m,” I paused, searching for the right word, “Genuinely curious of your findings, doctor.”

The added title seemed to fix him right up for he was immediately getting closer to me, his eyes becoming brighter and brighter as he expressed his desires, theories, and biased opinions.

“Oh? Then allow me to repeat myself. I am very prone to rambling to myself more so than company, you see. It is a weakness with me. But to be fair to myself,” he grinned a shark-teeth smile, the glint back with hidden intentions I did not have the wish to decipher, “it is my only weakness.”

“Really now?” I replied with amused nonchalance, although I felt none of the kind. 

I saw the man’s lips turn into a small smirk as he sauntered over to the black liquid, muttered of “almost done” and “can’t believe he lasted this long” being the following whispers. My eyes narrowed at the man, lips tightening into a thin line of hardened stone.

This was all gone when he turned back.

“Color,” he began, “Is lovely. It expresses so much of what we fail to imagine. It’s amazing really. How color will broaden our horizons. So crafty color is!” But he sighed. “Alas, it is unreliable. It is the other side of the same coin. This has nothing to do with the perception itself but for the human error that guides it. Fickle mortals.” I caught the name at the end and paused from replying. 

_Mortals_. As if he wasn’t one. As if we were lower than he. 

My arms became rather heavy at that moment, my gaze transfixed to its change. The tubes interlaced under his skin with doctor-like precision, black liquid transfiguring the skin to look incredibly malnourished and sickly. All of a sudden the sinking feeling that this had caused that change from the name of a _mortal_ to some other race was beginning to settle.

I stared at the blackened spots and flinched when they began to hold the same nauseating shift of the scientist in front of me. When I looked up to meet his gaze, he was smiling a composed, keen grin of a shark playing with the small fish of the sea. He was amused. It was blatantly obvious. 

I found myself speaking before I could think it through.

“Why did you come back for me? Why not turn to somebody else who might as well be more acquiescent than myself?” The tone was something I didn’t expect to use on this man. That emotion of admitting to one’s confusion.

Honesty. 

But at that moment, it seemed that the spoken question was all that I wanted to hear from those expectant lips.

Dragging a chair from somewhere I had not taken observation of, the man sat down heavily. It made it appear as if my question had tired him out suddenly. 

He took a deep breath and then opened his eyes again. They were staid, acute, and sharp. His entire form expressed a different personality than the flamboyant scientist I had begun to deceive mere moments before. 

I watched him through a narrowed gaze, his form flickering left and right in a dizzying pattern, in case it was to change back within a quick distraction in my direction.

His mouth opened. “You are the prime neutral testing subject, Doctor… or should I say _Captain_ Watson?” My lips tightened but that only served to loosen his even more so. “I’m sure you recall the Faded Resistance, hm?”

I didn’t give him the satisfactory of a response, but it seemed my words weren’t necessary for his continuance. Instead, he grabbed a board off the table next to the machine oozing black serum into my skin, flipping a page back as if viewing the medical history of a patient, or in this case, myself.

“As the captain, you directed your squad to whatever the case may be that involved an organization threatening the lives of others. These consisted of the Sepia Order, Faded Resistance, and so on.” He flipped a few pages, humming in the absence of voices. “You had a high success rate of saving the people but your team were never able to catch those who organized it all. Not until your last mission. What was it? Project…”

“Stonewashed.” I spoke this with an emotionless mask. If glares could burn, the scientist speaking of my military past would be nothing but smoke and ashes.

“Ah, yes. Stonewashed. Thank you.” He smiled at me with mirth that I didn’t reflect nearly as easily. “That was your last mission, wasn’t it? Your team caught wind of a Faded Resistance meeting and began descending onto the unsuspected ‘criminals’. It seems the source was right because they were there. But it wasn’t that easy. Gases surrounding the inner chambers, each scientist wearing a gas mask to keep them from the fumes.”

He paused after that, snickering at something on the page before continuing. “Your team was unprepared for the gases therefore none of you seemed to have gas masks. How… uncharacteristically careless, wouldn’t you say? Opportunistic attackers reigning in with nothing to whip? One of you would have had to risk your lives.”

Even though my face was a mask, my body contradicted it by relaxing against the tilted gurney. It strained my muscles and skin roughly clipped by the clasps, but the tense prickle of rigidity was causing more stress than keeping my pride in place completely. Perhaps the way I was situated was purposely set for that.

The scientist peeked up from his notes at my alteration and offered an apologetic smile, “Oh, I’m sorry. Are those things uncomfortable for you? I thought it would be best for you to wake up here before I moved you, you know. Sadly, I am not able to even perform _that_ much until your history is confirmed. Do you understand my dilemma, Dr. Watson?” 

My eyes raked through his form for any sarcasm or lies to trick me, but I saw none.

Rolling his eyes at my obstinacy, he got up and went to the door I previously thought led to an observing dock. Instead, he opened it and turned on the lights. I was able to tell through the windows in the side of the lab that it was another room, strikingly similar to rooms kept for patients of high-pathogens with an even higher contagious rate.

An isolated chamber in other words.

Leaving the door open, he walked back to the chair and sat down, resting the clipboard on his knees as he flipped to the page he was on. After a minute, he looked up to me with expectations.

Part of me wondered if this doctor, this scientist, suffered from multiple personalities when considering the complete polarity of his emotions from the first encounter to the amenable man in front of me. In this state, he was as most researchers were. He mainly was in it for the experiment, whereas the other counterpart mainly was pleasing Moriarty in this case.

Common sense spoke volumes in this moment. I needed to be as yielding as possible to keep this man in this… state. It was going to be annoying, to say the least, and more than a bit dignity draining, but it was necessary.

Just as the scene he depicted earlier just before my sudden defiance.

“Doctor,” he acquiesced, his eyebrows furrowing, “What did you do when you had to sacrifice one of your men to perform your duties?”

_You have the notes_ I wanted to say. _Why can’t you confirm my past with them?_

There was nothing traumatic of my case. It was just a very unpleasant situation that led to even more disagreeable result. I didn’t wish to recall it.

But I wanted to buy time. Buy time for this man to stay the same. Buy time for Sherlock to get his arse over here. I needed to buy time and thus going down memory lane was the best course of action. The only _reasonable_ course to follow.

“I went in myself,” I found myself speaking with clipped syllables. “None of my men had gas masks, as you pointed out, but I would rather risk myself to resolve the situation than any of their lives. I was acting as a captain should.”

The scientist hummed tonelessly before tapping a few fingers on the board.

“And you were able to settle the hazard before it was able to accumulate?”

I nodded.

That’s when he put the board aside and leaned in, interest gleaming dangerously in his eyes.

“But that’s not the finality, isn’t it?” He all but purred and the hungry look of information in his eyes was becoming harder to meet. “You were vulnerable to the fumes of the area. According to the paper, you were in there for an hour as your men rushed to their duties. Where did those fumes go?”

My eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

That shark-like grin resurfaced like a veil over a horrible piece of art, “Where did they go? They didn’t just poof into the air, did they? No osmosis allowed those poisonous gases to magically evaporate from the pores in your skin! _What happened to those gases?_ ”

This was one of the main controversial topics that lead to myself being sent back home. It was more so out of precaution, but it still tweaked under my skull every so often. A little nudge at wondering what the effects would be. Would I grow a limb? Experience cancer? Lose the touch for soul mates? Anything was possible with the testing the Faded Resistance had created.

“It’s still in my body,” my voice spoke audibly.

Apparently that was the conclusion the oddly calm madman wished to hear.

Standing, he glided over to my IV with the black substance and flicked it a little bit, “Very much so! It’s still floating in all those glorious little cells. Wonderful, isn’t it? You have been changing ever since you have returned and you wouldn’t even have noticed it with the gradualism of it all.”

Fingers prodded at my skin, poking at the blemishes of darkened gray with avid curiosity. The clasps and my own will were what kept me from flinching or avoiding those fingers.

The man continued with perilous haste. “You see, doctor. When I responded and said you were the prime neutral subject, it was due to the fact that you had suffered from the fumes of the Faded Resistance. It was not because of your Monochromism.”

“But are you not part of the Sepia Order?” I responded quickly, confused at the direction this was heading.

His shoulders lifted and fell in a shrug. “I have been a part of many organizations over the years. You see, when organizations require the scientific help of one specializing in color, there are very limited people who are willing to perform such acts of… anarchy.” He grinned, staring in the distance briefly, as if recalling a wonderful past. “Therefore I have been, at one point or another, been involved in the rebellious actions of the Faded Resistance.”

After a moment, I decided to ask the obvious question. “Fine. Then why does my past involvement in the FR have anything to do with your… projects.”

“Experiments,” he corrected politely. “And, once again, it is due to the fumes. Those infected by those have been significantly successful in one way or another. I have myself to be the living proof.”

“And those other experiments? The people at your last encampment?”

He grimaced. “Those were the failed attempts of the serum.”

I took in the information with a slow uptake. “Then you technically created the Sepia Order all on your own.” 

He shrugged again and went back to pressing buttons.

“More or less. This time won’t be like those other failures though. You will be better than them, better than myself even.” He cocked a brow at me when I stiffened. “You seem surprised. Did you truly think I didn’t notice your procrastination? I’m not an amateur, doctor. While you were speaking, I increased the intake of the serum in your system to make up for the loss time. Even as I am speaking to you, your body is surely racing with this liquid coursing through your veins and altering your genetic code.”

I blinked at him slowly. It was a façade now to hide the fact that I was very much aware of how my body was altering and the fear that chased it even further.

Perhaps a different approach was in order.

“Is this all a part of Moriarty’s plan?”

The scientist blinked in confusion at the different topic. He had not expected that. It took a good amount of will to hold back my pleased smirk.

At last, the man quirked his lips, “And why would it matter? There is no reason for me to tell you.”

“And there is no reason why you shouldn’t,” I countered, meeting his gaze steadily. “As you have politely hinted, I have no way to leave this place. I am as good as chained.”

I let it soak in and rose my brows when the once hesitant scientist pressed a few buttons that released the clasps. The floor met my descent quickly seeing as I had no strength to move any of my limbs. My legs were lead and my arms much like extra weight. Fighting was futile and the scientist knew it.

Said scientist got close to me and placed his arm around my waist as he heaved my body up with a small groan. I felt my legs clomp forward at a slow pace, but I personally had no control over them. It was an odd feeling, seeing them move but not moving them.

He reached behind him to grab the detached IV line containing the black fluid, pinching off the needle and rubbing the wound where the clear IV was effectively removed. 

The door that he kept open awaited me as we gradually, and silently, made our way. It was slow and tedious. I clenched my teeth to keep agitation being released from my lips and I could hear the American’s breathing becoming rather labored as he carried most if not all of the weight. 

“What’s the point in this?” I asked after we proceeded through the cell. The scientist looked behind him and reached out to press a few buttons as well as swiping his index finger across the access code. I took this chance to continue my prodding. “You explained why I was necessary. What you have failed to explain is why the goal is needed.”

Our advancing ceased as he thought over my question. I observed the room as he did so, getting used to my surroundings being the top priority.

There was an air vent in the wall that separated the lab from the containment cell. Other than that, the only means of escape would be the door itself and by the looks of the finger swiping system, I highly doubted that it was going to be possible to go that way unless I hacked it and technology wasn’t exactly my specialty. 

Off to the far corner was a cot, perhaps a twin size, with pristine white sheets and white blankets on an even whiter mattress and bed frame. It was all white, almost as if everything had been sterilized with bleach. 

Beside it was a small end table with a small device with a button, red in contrast. The window I saw earlier appeared to be nothing more than a mirror, much like in those American NCIS programs. 

Lastly, a door was perpendicular to the bed. It was easily assumed that this was the bathroom where all the necessities would be dealt with. 

No technology. No books or even pen or paper. No sketchbooks and pencils. It was barren, leaving me, myself, and my empty mind for company.

It was at this moment the scientist decided to finally answer my question. 

“I… just want to see how something works. In a personal goal, I would like to observe the effects of this serum on someone of your stature. In a long term assessment, it’s safe to assume that this will be used for some diabolical plan of some degree, hm?” He raised his brow in my direction whereas my own furrowed at his vague answer.

But I found no energy to retort his words. Exhaustion had me crippled from the exertion my body was being strained under even if I was not the one controlling it voluntarily. 

He noticed this quickly.

“Ah, you’re tired! We should not leave you standing.” He rushed me over to the bed and placed me down. Heaving my legs up onto the mattress, I stared at my useless limbs with annoyance and dull fear. The scientist was quick to adjust the IV to my side where any tossing or turning would not affect it. Once he pressed a few more buttons, he smiled at me. 

It looked scarily similar to his other persona. 

“Now, I have some tests to run and you are going to stay here. If you need help, this,” he pointed to the mechanism with the red button, “will alert me. Just press it and I will be in if I am in the lab or perhaps somebody else of the vicinity.”

“Somebody else?” I questioned although the words were slurred. The American smiled at me with pity and patted my head, much to my various stages of irritation.

With that, he left the room and soon after it went dark, the only lights coming from the air vents attached to the lab.

As unconsciousness came to me, my thoughts reached out to Lucille and Sherlock as I wondered how they were doing.

I had complete trust in Sherlock’s abilities. They were intelligent and absolutely brilliant. 

But would he be able to find this place? Surely he knows the man responsible. That much can be given by Mrs. Hudson. 

He was going to find me. He was the World’s Only Consulting Detective. There were no ifs, ands, or buts about this assertion.

I fell asleep soon after, troubles causing ripples in my mind.

 

**SHERLOCK POV**

I watched John leave for a split second before turning back to the Translucent girl in front of me. She also seemed to carefully observe the doctor’s leaving. She trusted him more than I did and considering his history, she was no doubt a tad protective. When she met my gaze, she was of a less comfortable position. It was as if tension and caution had restricted her.

It was safe to assume why this was the case. She had trusted John, since he had not only saved her but her brother as well. I, on the other hand, had little to do with it. She had never met me on a personal level and only had the good doctor’s word to go off of to assume I wasn’t someone to cause harm.

But at the same time this change was absolutely infuriating. When one was as tense as she was, they were careful with what they said and kept their information close to their chest. They didn’t give out more than they had to and if they do it was like you are pulling out their teeth one by one. 

A sigh escaped my lips that did nothing to calm her.

I could smile but that would not benefit either of us. I’m not sure how efficient my smiles are. John never told me.

Small talk was another option but it would again prove to be futile. I was not one to make pleasant small talk. It was a time waster. It was absolutely atrocious and only served to put things off. Small talk would make things worse between the two of us with how inexperienced I was with the method.

So, instead, I would have to use my usual approach for her. The direct approach. At least until John came back to place some sense into her.

However, it was her voice that spoke first despite the lengthy debacle coming to a conclusion.

“He isn’t coming back.”

I rose a brow at the girl in front of me. She kicked her legs softly against the stool as if completely engrossed in thought or anxious of her predicament – probably both.

“John?” I asked and she nodded mutely at my response.

“I’m going to assume you know where he went,” I spoke as I resumed my spot on the chair. This time my hands were clasped together in thought. Partially over John’s sudden leaving and Lucille’s own information regarding such.

She shook her head, her white hair bouncing as she did so. “No,” she asserted softly. “I mean, I am not positive of who this individual is. Words and little else appeared to me in their wake.”

Individual? Ah, he must have gone with someone. No, he wouldn’t have done that without telling me. An abduction was more likely. Haste would be much appreciated perhaps, but I needed facts and information to be so. Running around with no data was less productive and more obstructive. 

And this little girl was going to be the start of that collection it seemed.

"Do you have any features of the individual?" I questioned.

Lucille shook her head. "I can only catch bits and pieces. Nothing big and important."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “Any information is much appreciated Miss Lucille.”

Her eyes seemed to narrow at my tone of voice, but I made no notion to apologize. I didn’t apologize. That was purely John’s method of expertise. “An American. Preferably an American scientist took him.”

That struck a chord immediately. I probed Lucille on, mentally scrolling through my mind palace.

“I only faintly gathered his name. He never gave it, you see. Although you are probably aware of our Translucent ways, Mr. Holmes.”

“Sherlock,” I corrected. “And yes. Gathering information that they never state. Much like the common methods of deduction.”

She nodded. “A tad different but yes. Anyhow, the name I gathered may or may not be his. A John Dalton.”

The name sounded strikingly familiar. After a moment, I realized with bitter irony how he had the same name of the man who described his own color blindness in his research. Funny how one can soon become an extremist of something so easily discernable. I supposed it made things faintly interesting, despite the fact that I was now solely researching and tracking a kidnapping of my recent blogger. 

Agitation welcomed me with open arms at this deduction. The thought of what and who John was being held by promoted small actions of anxiety. I could feel my fingers tapping against the chair with a quickened pace.

I abhorred these emotions.

Why am I getting so caught up by this? I’m supposed to be on a case. Not worrying over a doctor. 

However, I still found myself striding towards the door to peer down the stairs. The front door was wide open and swung softly with the light breeze that filtered in. No destruction proved a struggle but sedatives might have come into play.

Another door opens and closes and Mrs. Hudson appeared there to shut the door, locking it as well out of habit.

“Mrs. Hudson,” I called out to the elderly woman and she looked up. “Have you seen Dr. Watson anywhere?”

She shook her head. “John? Oh no, dear. I saw him come down to answer the door. Perhaps he went out?”

Unlikely.

I looked back at Lucille and saw she was paler than she previously was, a feat when it came to her genes.

“John…” she whispered, then she looks right at me, almost as if she could see me. “The scientist wanted John. He wasn’t looking to go after us at all before. He… he wanted to follow you home.”

The last puzzle piece to the mystery.

Cursing loudly, I threw on my coat and wrapped a scarf around my neck. As I was unlocking the door, I glanced at Mrs. Hudson and told her to watch Lucille. 

As a last thought, a fleeting one at that, I ran up and grabbed John’s gun before racing out the door. You can never be too cautious I suppose.

For some odd reason, everything decided to happen once John arrived. No sooner had these cases appeared. No later than his introduction to myself. No, they decided to happen immediately once he got here. It was like he was prone to danger. 

I briefly fancied the thought that perhaps he was but that would have been illogical and irrational thinking.

I didn’t bother hailing a cab. It would be better to turn down an alley to the closest area of information. The Yard would be useless here. Lestrade may crack a whip, but without motive to work they would not have done a single search to merit John’s kidnapping.

As my feet made contact with the dirty alleys concrete floors, I tried to think about how to pursue the attacker but found myself wondering about John. If he was okay. If he was injured. He just got out of the bloody hospital a few weeks ago. His injuries were not all fully healed.

I resisted the sudden action to halt.

Why was I concerned? Furthermore, why was I worried? 

Why did I care?

I’m a machine and machines don’t care.

But what I felt now can only be described as caring.

Sighing angrily, I pushed the thoughts aside. One bridge at a time and John was the first one to make. 

As they say, I’ll cross this bridge when I get there.


	19. Cross-Hatched

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My senior year starts next week so Friday's chapter may or may not be updated until Saturday. It depends on time and my work schedule.

**SHERLOCK POV**

“Fuck!” The man cursed as I slammed him into a wall. His eyes were absolutely murderous as he met my own. The bright glint of harm that he wished to inflict me with. I didn’t care for how he felt. I didn’t care if he despised me. I didn’t care if my assaulted injured him to the point of hospitalization. I didn’t even flinch when he openly spat in my face, instead reaching a hand up to wipe it away as my forearm kept him in place.

No, I didn’t care about those. I didn’t care about any of that. It was useless, little facts that didn’t mean much to me.

What I _did_ care about was that this low-life was keeping information from me for an absurd reason. Information that I could be using to locate the good doctor. Facts that could direct me to a specific location. 

It didn’t help that this man was obviously Discoloured and drunk. His eyes couldn’t focus on me for longer than five seconds and his knees kept threatening to buckle on him. Each minute I held him against the wall was turning into upholding a bloody corpse. The warm breath he breathed out was followed with a stench of alcohol and lack of hygiene in general.

He was a bitter man to put it lightly. A very bitter and reluctant man.

However, he was the only source credible for the man who took John.

“That’s not an answer to my question, I assure you,” I sneered and the man growled. 

I slammed his back against the wall once more and he cursed again. It was déjà vu. The loud curses and snide remarks to bother me if I was the normal idiot.

“A location,” I jeered, but the man shook his head.

“I ‘mit nothin’” He slurred heavily, trying to thrash in my grip.

Scoffing, I quickly rotated him around until his face was pressed against the cement walls, twisting his arm around his back. If I added an ounce more pressure I could pop it out of its socket. It wouldn't be the first time I had to perform these precarious measures. 

The howl of pain was expected and I rolled my eyes. I was not in the mood for complaining factoids. I had a time constraint, a limit in which I had to retrieve him. This blubbering excuse of a man was a factor I should have expected. 

“A location,” I grounded again, applying a smidgeon more pressure. A heavy shiver ran down the man’s spine at the pain I imagined he was feeling. A few spare whimpers escaped his lips mixed in with barely discernible swears.

After panting, the man finally answered. “Why does it mat’er tha’ you find this man?”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m not looking so much for the man as for the individual he is withholding.”

“An’ is tha' indiv'dual worth it?”

I paused. I didn’t release the man nor did I reduce the amount of pressure however I was mentally caught off guard.

The answer came quickly despite this small setback.

“Yes." It was absolute, not an ounce of uncertainty much to my interest. Leaning in, I watched his enraged glare follow me. "Now, a location. I quite frankly don’t have all night to keep you occupied.”

A pinch more pain and the man spoke quickly. 

“Fine! Fine! Queen Mary’s. The university.”

I wanted to laugh but contained it to a scoff. “I would assume that since you said university that you also know the specific facility in the area?”

A growl as the drunk attempted to find a way to avoid the answer. At last, he sighed and responded sullenly with mild anger lingering in his voice. “SEM Research Facilities.”

I didn’t hesitate to back off immediately and dusted my hands against each other. Turning on my heels, I began to make my way back to civilization when I spotted the man get up, or more accurately, his shadow. It sported a blade where his hands would be.

Sighing, I carefully observed the shadow for a moment. It would be an easy disarm. He didn’t even hold accurate posture or stability for the attack. How annoying.

Performing a quick 180, I thrust myself forward and smacked his wrist hard, hearing the man hiss and drop the blade. Not a second later I take another step and use the brunt of my side to slam him into the wall. His head made contact first and the rest of his dirty body slid to the ground. Not dead. Just unconscious.

I observed him with disinterest and scoffed.

Glancing at the knife, I kicked it under one of the disposals and sighed, once again making my way out.

“Amateur. I have dealt with worse attempting to get a hit.”

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

**JOHN POV**

When I awake, it was due to the noise beside me. 

It wasn’t so much as loud as disorienting since everything else was kept in silence. This place was like a cemetery and any little noise was similar to an explosion. A disruption to the false peace. A ripple of noise to drag me out of any sense of calm.

White walls, white ceilings, white tile, and the white cot I rested on met me when I lifted my head to view my surroundings. Not the flat. Definitely not the flat. It was too clean for anybody to be living here longer than a few days. No boxes or beakers littering the ground and counter. Nothing to hint at the apparently missing detective.

The distinct beeping next to me dragged my attention next and with it, everything came back to me. The kidnapping that led to my injection of a mysterious fluid. The abnormal scientist with a personality disorder of some sort. The fact that Sherlock and Lucille may still be at the flat expecting me to rise up those stairs. The conclusion that I had not.

Thumping my head back against the pillow, I sighed with frustration.

Right. Damsel in distress. Caught. _Still_ caught. Seems like nothing has changed since I have last slept.

How long has it been? Had days passed or has it only been a few hours? With how neutral this room was, it was nearly impossible to tell.

This room held no clocks. The only numbers were the IV lines that blinked apathetically to reveal the numbers of my pulse, blood pressure, and respirations. I had no way to keep time in this room, in my containment cell. 

Great. Just splendid.

My eyes, previously in slits from the blinding light, slowly opened fully.

I regretted it almost immediately.

The fluid had definitely changed me since the last time I was conscious. I couldn’t look at anything fully, or maybe it was specific to the lab. Maybe it was different outside? 

Whatever the case, before, I was able to observe a room in general assessments but now even those placed a spike of pain in my skull right between my eyes. I felt something roll in my stomach – nausea – and groaned at the uncomfortable symptoms I was feeling. It felt like the flu but ten times worse. Like I had been diagnosed with some sort of instantly active cancer mixed in with every symptom of every disease possible.

The movement was a little better at least. I was finally able to curl into a ball and face away from the door towards the wall. My limbs were still lead and metal, but they were less stiff. More pliable. At this point, I didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. If that meant I was getting used to the black liquid or if I was fighting it. 

I prayed for the latter and I wasn’t even a religious man.

My conscious seemed to like the color white after a while. Well, technically white isn’t really a color, but it doesn't change its relieving shade. 

Anyhow, it was a nice separation because anything with color had the nauseating effect of switching from Monochrome hues to bright color like malfunctioning strobe lights.

White, on the other hand, was white. It had no other color so looking at it was much easier than looking anywhere else. It was a morphine-like color that numbed the headache and the other aches that rested in each bone and muscle of my body.

The click of oxford heels against the tile were heard before the tone of the keypad. A second later, the door was pushed open.

No matter the temptation, I didn’t turn around when I heard the doctor from earlier open the door and lock it once more. I ignored greeting him as I always had each time he has entered. He padded softly over to my cot with a small tap of his pen against a clipboard. The despicable anger I felt for this man was blinding before, but now it has ebbed. Now, what was left was pure irritation. Just annoyance of what he reduced me to from what I once was.

Much to my annoyance, he began to hum softly to himself as he turned the dials to adjust my vitals and diffusions. It was an aimless tune that was clearly made up on the spot but seeing as it was the only noise in this god-forsaken place, I had to narrow my hearing to its sounds involuntarily. 

It only got worse when he added words.

_“I can’t decide whether you should live or die._

_Oh, you’ll probably go to heaven.”_

After a while it got overbearing and I turned over to watch the doctor. He rose a brow at me when I glared in his direction, but pointedly stopped humming. The words continued on however.

_“Please don’t hang your head and cry._

_No wonder why_

_My heart feels dead inside.”_

“Dead,” I scoffed and he paused to exchange of look of silence before returning to his tune.

_“It’s cold and hard and petrified._

_Lock the doors and close the blinds._

_We’re going for a ride.”_

It felt like there was more to the song but nothing more came. It was quite except for the repetitive beeping of the IV telling my heart rate and pulse to the world.

He was in the process of switching the black liquid that was almost dry when he spoke. This time it was without the singing.

“Just a few more hours, Doctor Watson.”

I squinted my eyes, the pulsing color changes beginning to come back in full swing. I was tempted to argue or fight back this man but it would be futile. I needed to build up my strength before I attempted something that drastic.

“Until what?”

He clicked his tongue at my question like it was obvious. “Until you are complete, of course.”

I narrowed my eyes and found myself tense. “I’m not a bloody experiment.”

The pitying smile that I was given in response was terrible. It was like he was trying to explain something to a child. His voice got softer and he rose his brow considerably as if taken by my denial. “On contrary, Doctor Watson. It seems that you are.”

If glares could kill, this man would be bleeding on the ground. “But only because you made me this way.”

The scientist looked fully prepared to offer another explanation when a soft vibration in his lab coat interrupted him. Sighing, he smiled at me with an apologetic expression – although I could really care less – and dug into his pocket, retrieving his mobile. He turned away from me and answered the phone.

“Hello? Doctor Dalton speaking…“ He paused mid-sentence as if interrupted. 

Meanwhile, I pondered the name I just heard. Dalton? I couldn’t place my finger on it, but I swear I heard that name somewhere. It could have been when I was in med school or during something on the telly, but I knew I had heard that name somewhere.

But I didn’t have long to mull over this. At this rate I needed to focus on what he was saying. As pathetic as it was, I had hours ahead of me to try and decipher his name.

“Yes, he is here. Oh, the experiment is going lovely. Yes, yes, I know. He…“ Another interruption. “That is what I was trying to say! He will be ready in a few more hours I promise you. Everything is going according to plan.” He smiled briefly, brightly, maniacally. “Alright! Farewell.”

Pressing the end call button, he met my eyes and smiled. “The boss says hello. He hopes you are doing well.”

I scoffed. I already was pretty positive I knew who this boss was. And with that said, I knew I could never be well in his presence.

He returned to the dials and began messing with them again. “You will be going with him when you are finished.”

“And if I don’t?” I inquired.

Those eyes met mine and for a moment I spotted fear. It was a surprise. This scientist didn’t seem to harbor fear but perhaps it was hidden behind the absolute madness he nurtured in his mind.

“I fear you don’t have much of a choice, Doctor Watson.”

Sighing, I leaned back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling.

“What will I even be like when I leave this place?” I didn’t mean for it to be answered. It was more so a personal question that I felt like voicing. An inquiry that had been tearing me to pieces.

A fear of being changed into something I was not kept grasping me. I didn’t want to be reduced to a drone or another lackey to follow Jim’s every word. My history wouldn’t matter to me anymore. The friends I lost on the battlefield and promised to remember? All those patients of ranging color variance that I mourned after a failed attempt at saving their lives? It would mean nothing. Those traits that made me before could be ripped from me and I found that more terrifying than dying.

In all actuality, I would rather die than become something I’m not. Pride be damned.

The scientist, for all he is worth, didn’t respond to my question, letting me soak in my fearful reveries and personal hatreds.

“You never told me who you were working for.” 

Blinking up from his charts, he tilted his head to the side. “Excuse me?”

“The last time we spoke, I asked you and you said that you couldn’t tell me. If I am to be leaving with him, I have the right to know who he is, don’t I?”

The man’s eyes observed me for a moment and it reminded me stupidly of Sherlock. The same, scrutinizing look that was the deciding factor on whether he would reveal certain information to the Yard or if he would keep it to himself for his own personal chase. Minutes passed and all I saw was Sherlock staring at me like the first time I performed surgery on him.

It was around this time that something crashed in the next room. Both the scientist and I ceased moving, our attention being towards the glass window.

“I will be back.” His voice radiated annoyance.

When he pressed in the code and swiped his finger, effectively opening the door, I craned my neck to see what happened out in the lab. What I saw, however, created an overwhelming sense of déjà vu.

Hidden behind one of the lab stations was Sherlock, crouched and almost obscure in the shadows. He was looking straight at me and motioned for my silence. I rolled my eyes. I wasn't an amateur at stealth. 

The scientist made one mistake when he left and if it wasn’t for that mistake, Sherlock’s plan would have failed I realized. I mean, perhaps he could have discovered the code just from the wear and tear on the buttons, but it would have taken significantly longer and even more work on the man himself. Disbelief grasped me to think that Sherlock had been relying on human characteristics alone – a very unreliable variable in his book – to get me out of this pathetic mess.

But he seemed to play his cards right because when the scientist left, he didn’t shut the door. I didn’t know where the noise originated from but it must have been far for Sherlock to sneak in and quickly come over to my cot.

“Sherlock,” I sighed, closing my eyes briefly and mentally putting together a string of curses to go along with his name. However, none of them manifested and instead a traitorous smile of relief appeared. “Where the hell have you…”

“No time. As it is, finding this place was rather difficult. Getting out will be pushing the limits.” He began to remove the IV lines and any restraints I may have gathered since my slumber. When his hands reached the line with the black serum, he looked at me questioningly.

And, me being the idiot at the moment, I looked him straight in the eye and flinched visibly. They kept changing from blue to gray and back so fast that it was like a train wreck level of disaster. Sherlock didn’t miss the flinch and reached out to steady me before faltering and dropping his hands. I closed my eyes for a moment and when I opened them, Sherlock’s face was closed off and emotionless.

Taking a deep breath, I pointed towards the line. “Just remove it as you would an IV, but be careful. I haven’t the faintest clue what this is and I don’t know if it will react to you from just being on your skin.”

“But you-!” Sherlock protested but clenched his teeth when I glowered back.

“I have been under this for a few hours now, Sherlock. I don’t think I have much of a choice if this affects me or not.” At that he didn’t respond, mutely removing the line and avoiding contact.

After he removed the lines, he backed away, expecting me to get up. I tried, for his sake. I did, but the most I got was a futile struggle to get into a sitting position.

Sherlock didn’t hesitate to come near once more. “Can you walk?”

I rolled my eyes. “If I could, do you think I would be needing you to help me?” He chuckled and I offered a faint smile. I was already losing energy from the exertion of attempting to get up.

“Are you alright?” he asked me after he managed to get us both standing. His arm was around my waist and he had my arm hanging over his shoulder, using his other hand to keep it in place.

An airy laugh escaped. “Besides being weak and having my pride drip onto the floor? Splendid.”

He paused. “Mentally?”

I grimaced, but the answer was truthful when I finally gave it. “I’m fine. What he did to me affects me physically, not mentally. That much I can promise you right now.” He was about to ask another question when I shook my head. “We really don’t have time for this Sherlock. I highly doubt the scientist will spend his leisure time getting back to his latest experiment.” The last word fell off bitterly and Sherlock stiffened ever so slightly before nodding.

As we walked through the doors, I realized something with a growing panic.

Sherlock was here. His hands were touching mine, skin on skin. We were soul mates, that much I was certain.

So why did the color I should be feeling come in reluctantly and slow?

I didn’t bring it up to Sherlock and hoped it was only a brief side effect. Because if not… 

My mind didn’t bother spelling it out for me.

We hobbled out of the room, and past one of the lab tables. It had vials upon vials of the black substance that was injected into me. Yes, it was black. Even with color the hue didn’t change.

Sherlock didn’t hesitate to grab one of the vials, placing it in his coat pocket.

I heard the footsteps before Sherlock did but I still warned him too late.

“Sherlock!” I shouted and before I knew it we were tumbling to the ground, a loud smack above me the only sound that told us what happened. As Sherlock fell, I heard him attempt to grab the nearest object to stabilize the both of us, but it was futile for he grabbed a medical tool cart and it wasn’t strong enough to hold two grown men as its weight. Medical supplies scattered to the ground after us.

My limbs felt heavy and numbed as I crashed to the ground and I winced, peering over at where Sherlock was before glancing back at the scientist.

He looked at us like a parent displeased with a bad grade. 

In his hands was a microscope, a little corner at the bottom tainted with red/dark grey (the changing colors making it impossible to stare at for long).

With three, calm steps, the scientist – Dr. Dalton I had to remind myself – approached Sherlock.

“You thought you could fool me again, eh? I’m sure you will find I am a quick learner, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock clicked his tongue at the man which seemed to be the last straw in the American’s patience.

A swift kick was made to Sherlock’s stomach and I watched him cringe. I wanted to reach out and grab the scientist’s legs, but I was moving too slowly, my metal limbs keeping me nearly stationary. 

The scientist snickered at the assault. Sherlock watched him, uttering something about "amateur". Not a second later, the scientist growled and kicked Sherlock’s face. I heard a sickening crunch as his nose broke and began to bleed.

Anger swelled in me as I watched Sherlock groan and spit out blood.

I needed to do something! A distraction would do best in fact. Something to throw off the scientist until I had a better idea. Anything to stop him from abusing Sherlock at this very moment.

My eyes flew wildly across my area and landed on a stray syringe. Stretching, I grasped it and began to crawl over to the American albeit slowly. After a few seconds, and several more kicks to various parts of Sherlock’s body. Each breath I took was another kick to his side or a stomp on his ribs. 

Eventually, I plunged the syringe into his leg. It took every ounce of energy to even _get_ there, but it was worth it when the needle stuck in his skin and I released before he could kick me worse than the detective next to me.

The howls of the scientist as he lost his balance and fell didn’t distract me from approaching Sherlock.

“You are a sodding idiot, you know that?” I growled as I mentally checked over his injuries. Sherlock merely chuckled and protested that he could never be an idiot.

“John,” he wheezed and I turned to face him. “Look in my pocket. Bottom right.”

I didn’t hesitate to reach in, surprised when I pulled out my old army pistol.

At the padded steps of the recovering scientist, I quickly rolled onto my back and pointed the gun at the scientist. I didn’t doubt my aim. I never doubted my aim. There was a reason that I was captain in the squad of my soldiers. I was a sharp shooter and never missed.

The smile that broke out on the scientist’s face was confusing to say the least.

“Oh… he knew this would happen, you know. Warned me even in that call back there.” He wagged his fingers playfully at us with a little tilt of his head.

“Moriarty?” I asked and he nodded enthusiastically.

“Yes! You know, with you and Sherly there…”

I spared a brief glance at Sherlock and found him watching the man with a mixture of weary curiosity and annoyance. “What about us?”

The scientist seemed to be continuing even without my prodding. Continuing to wag a finger at me like he was scolding me, he chuckled to himself. “He likes you. You… interest him.”

I gripped the gun tighter, finger itching on the trigger. “Moriarty likes me? What sort of interest could he have for a simple ex-army doctor?” But the scientist waved his hand as if to dismiss the topic.

Instead, he leveled his gaze with Sherlock, the smile faltering to a cold and calculating sneer. “He told me to tell you something, Sherlock.” He smirked and for a second it resembled too much like Jim’s. A mirror image of when I faced him in the Translucent abode. “This is only the overture.”

With that, he met my eyes again. My hands weren’t shaking and I knew I could take the shot. It wouldn't be fatal, but it would stop him from escaping. However, that being said it would also cease his talking and I had a feeling that wouldn't help our situation. So my fingers remained still.  
As it were, that was probably my downfall.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Doctor Watson, but you won’t be getting rid of me this time around either. Maybe third time is the charm?” He looked sincerely apologetic before snapping his fingers and letting the lights turn off. I didn’t hesitate to snap my fingers in response except by the time the lights turned on he was gone.

I didn’t bother suppressing my groan. “Does everyone in Moriarty’s lot go out of their way for theatrics?”

Upon hearing a low chuckle, I peered over at Sherlock. Despite the annoyance I felt, my heart did ache as I saw him injured as he was. I didn’t show this, of course. Why would I?

A shaky hand reached up to wipe away the black/crimson blood escaping his lips in a slow dribble. I saw the flinch as he attempted to rotate his position on the ground or to get up into a better position. 

Doctor-mode was flipped on almost as easily as a switch.

“Lay down.” Sherlock spared me an exasperated look. “Now, Sherlock. Your stiches, despite your protests of being fine, may have been pulled apart at the abuse you took.” Sherlock remained stubborn for a while before reluctantly laying down, muttering about how he was supposed to get rid of them the following week.

Quelling the urge to smirk at his whining and complaining, I carefully unbuttoned his coat and pushed it to the side. 

My pride was eternally grateful that I was in my medical mode at the moment. Had I not been, I might have made a fool of myself in blushing at the mere thought of taking off Sherlock’s shirt. 

_Just think!_ The thoughts supplied absently. _If someone were to see this, people would talk!_

The red/dark gray seeping into Sherlock’s shirt was nearly impossible to miss. I didn’t bother voicing the fact that I was right for I was positive Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate it. In fact, he would probably grow more reluctant – or more like a child. Both were practically the same in his case.

Pushing the shirt to either side of him like his coat previously, I caught a clear sight of the stitches. A twinge of sympathy went out towards the consulting detective. He was more than happy to have these things removed next week, euphoric even. At this rate, he may have to get new ones. Luckily, none of his bones was broken but the bruises that would paint his skin and the broken nose he suffered from was a different story.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I can just _hear_ the complaining now.

When I removed the shirt, the blood began to flow more freely. I cursed and reached to where my phone would have been. Logic claimed to call the Yard as well as any other emergency team in the vicinity but seeing as I had been captive, I wasn’t too surprised to see that it was confiscated. No doubt it was probably disposed of by this point.

Sighing angrily, I looked around me for some gauze; something to stop the blood flow at least. First aid supplies were of the necessity, but I doubted I would find a needle and thread to redo the sutures in this area. 

Hands fumbled with the medical supplies that fell across the ground earlier. I spotted scalpels and a few syringes of questionable substances before finally grasping a barely used roll of gauze. 

I wanted to curse loudly at my useless limbs right now. Well, not necessarily useless as much as slow and lethargic. I was going to have to wrap this roll of gauze around Sherlock’s midsection and my being slow and all was certainly going to be a hindrance. 

But Sherlock wasn’t complaining about my speed, which was odd for him. Glancing over at him, I wanted to roll my eyes when he was holding up the black substance in the vial for inspection. So that’s why. Prat.

I expected him to disregard me as I rolled the gauze, but when my hands made contact with his skin, I felt him flinch for a moment. The soul connection so to speak, which was definitely abnormal since he rarely felt what went on with such ordeals. 

Sherlock rose a brow in my direction at my hesitance, but I sighed and shook my head. Better to not question it right now. Perhaps it will be gone in the morning.

It took roughly 15 minutes more or less, if I had to guess, to wrap Sherlock’s wound effectively but it felt longer. He didn’t hesitate to voice his discomfort but I chided him, saying he should have been more observant of the scientist. That earned me a glare that I smiled sweetly at.

Scooting back, I was a little relieved to see that my coordination seemed to be improving from my discharge of the black substance.

But that didn’t stop me from laying on my back beside Sherlock.

“We should be leaving this area, John.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, we should, Sherlock. We should also be at the hospital getting treated or back at the flat to relieve Mrs. Hudson from her concerns. Not to mention that perhaps some sleeping would be in order, hm?”

The same low chuckle resounding next to me and I refused to think how it made me feel warm and at home inside hearing it because I certainly didn’t feel like that. It was simply the adrenaline rubbing off and the soul connection.

But nonetheless, I looked over at Sherlock and spotted almost immediately the bittersweet grin he was sporting.

I nudged him. “Stop thinking so loudly Sherlock. I can hear your thoughts from over here and they seem to have “Moriarty” written all over them.”

Sherlock gaped at me for a moment before rolling his eyes. “You can’t possibly hear my thoughts, John. Illogical.”

“You still didn’t deny the fact that I was right,” I pointed out and he laughed again.

“No,” he acquiesced. “I didn’t.”

Silence reigned its grip before it allowed me to break it. Sighing, I turned and glared at Sherlock.

"How did you even get in here? All I saw were the vents..."

"There was a door in the back. You're in a university. We are in a lab at this University so naturally there has to be a door to teach."

Narrowing my eyes at the unusually distracted man, I decided to prod once again. I should let the man say whatever it is that bothers him.

“So…” I prompted.

Sherlock mirrored my sigh. “I was thinking that Moriarty is more than I previously deducted.”

I didn’t voice my agreement, merely humming, but I had a feeling I didn’


	20. Tinct

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the first official chapter in which I had to write it from scratch and produce it in like... a day and a half. 
> 
> Also, I may integrate actual cases from the Sherlock Holmes books with modified changes to fit my AU. Kudos to anyone who can name which one I use in this chapter. It's honestly one of my favorite cases besides a certain other case I may or may not use.
> 
> Also, I did use a quote from Sherlock. I want to refrain from using them as much as I can, but the quote fit the moment perfectly and I caved in.

**John POV**

A few hours later the two of us managed to get out of the god-forsaken laboratories and slowly made our way over to fetch a cab. The driver was more than surprised to see two bloodied men – although the blood on me was Sherlock’s and not my own – and didn’t hesitate a moment to take us to the nearest hospital. Luckily, and unluckily, this was the same hospital that Mary happened to be working shifts at on the time of our arrival.

I had never gotten a parent scolding as a child. I was a fairly good, obedient son and, for the most part, any trouble I got into was due to Harry trying to “man” me up. She always thought I was “too much of a sissy” and, me being the younger, I would do anything to not be called the sister from her. 

But if I got in trouble it was mostly her who got scolded and not myself. My parents weren’t blind and knew when I was in the wrong or when it was in fact Harry who told me to kick the football at the elderly couple's window to test if I was too chicken or not. 

So to say that Mary’s scarily calm lectures about my sanity and will to live was “downright mental” scared the hell out of me was nothing short of the cold truth. I could take it if she was screeching her lungs out or yelling, but it was when she closed herself off that I knew I was in trouble. It was utterly terrifying, army captain or not. 

Sherlock, of course, took it with ease. He didn’t seem bothered by it at all which I despised and admired him for because he was getting the brunt of the scold for apparently tainting me. 

I was wondering if I should stop her before she had an aneurysm or worse. 

It got to the point that Sarah was called in and pulled her out before apologizing and checking me over. Afterward, I requested my own medical kit and professionally fixed Sherlock’s sutures as well as managed to persuade him into a CT scan. I didn’t think that would have been possible.

Luckily, it seemed he was perfectly fine and with a brief fix from Sarah to help align Sherlock’s broken nose, we were patched up more or less.

And then we went home.

That’s where we were a week later. Sherlock was testing the serum – again – and his mutterings of specifics and doses being “right” and “incredibly absurd” kept circling the flat. Considering the fact that he had done this the entire time since we had gotten home, I was used to it and ignored the mantra in favor of working on the same drawing from a week ago. The box had been moved by Mrs. Hudson when she cleaned in our absence, but I had the image in my head.

It was the event. The color that allowed me to remember it and the sparse sentimentality of the detective at the time that I found incredibly unfounded and rare.

I didn’t mention the moment to him, the color, and he didn’t either. It was territory we both didn’t favor in testing.

Hatching penciled lines across the parchment, I glanced up at Sherlock as he concluded loudly that “Nothing at all was peculiar in the mix once again” with his classic tone of irritation and disbelief.

I, on the other hand, was not nearly as annoyed by this result.

The man who kidnapped me was a scientist so the odds that his serum – a serum he had perfected over several months – would be noticed through a microscope and with several other chemical variations seemed incredibly unlikely. He created most of the agencies I fought against in Afghanistan and he was one of the only pliable color scientists. That being said, he was incredibly smart. Now, I wasn’t sure if he was smarter than Sherlock, but he was definitely intelligent on a higher plane than myself.

Of course, Sherlock wasn’t going to accept this. He was the “world’s only consulting detective” and thus he should automatically figure _everything_ out. If he couldn’t find something soon, he was going to go mad – and it was already questionable if he was with those around him. They don’t need the driving incentive, not that he would care anyhow.

My lips curved up as Sherlock stomped his foot like a child and once again threw away his mixture of _“whatever x the black goo”_ into the sink. Luckily, the beaker didn’t shatter this time. I more or less lost count of how many glass flasks, beakers, or otherwise that he had broken over the week. Still, I was more worried that Mrs. Hudson was seeing dust sprinkle from the ceiling with all the racket or perhaps the pipes rusting than I was with Sherlock’s tantrums. Not out of disregard but of habit.

It came in stages. First there were the exclamations:

“This is absurd. There _should_ be something in your blood, but no matter how many times I compare the serum to your sample it is not at all alike.”

Then the false giving up:

Sherlock turned off the Bunsen burner and grabbed all his dirty experimental containers and through them in the sink. Staring at the mess like it had somehow offended him, he placed one hand on the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. 

Lastly, it was the sudden spur of inspiration that got him into performing _more_ experiments. This made the cycle start all over again.

“Perhaps if I mix the sample with Hydrogen Peroxide. The chemical rebound may cause the alterations to appear or even separate considering the obvious inflation that is when blood is mixed in.”

Shaking my head to myself, I tilted my pencil sideways and began shading in some of the hatched lines. Absently, I awaited Sherlock to grab some sort of glassware that would be abused with his experiments. The clinking of glass hitting the glass and a small pop and hiss to signify him turning on the Bunsen burner. Or even some sort of aroma or sound to hint his new experiment. 

However, it seemed he was done for the day. Again, something that wasn’t entirely new. The consistent “unfathomable results” always tended to wear him out sooner or later. 

Now, he was going to probably sit somewhere in a close proximity of myself and then rant and repeat his conclusion which was going to be the same as every other result from this past week.

_Nothing. Unaltered. Changes or the lack thereof._

So, no, I wasn’t surprised when a moment later Sherlock crashed against the sofa. God only knew that with his reacquired injuries that should be the last thing he should be doing but it was clear he wasn’t going to listen to it. Mr. I-want-my-stitches-out-as-soon-as-possible squabbling about the restriction even though it was clear he wasn’t acting on the claim.

“I tested your blood,” he began and leaned against my shoulder. I glanced at him with a raised brow but said nothing as I went back to my sketch.

“And? Did you find anything?”

Sherlock groaned and crossed his arms over his chest. “It was what I _didn’t_ find. There is nothing wrong with your blood, John. Absolutely nothing. If the serum did anything to your anatomy, cellular or otherwise, it is not showing in your blood.”

Nodding, I started to lightly shade the shadows of the corner to my imaginary box. “Are you going to want a stool sample next? Or will I have to give you a part of my bone marrow?”

“Don’t mock me,” he spat out, tensing like a cat before relaxing reluctantly. “No. I doubt I will find anything in those as well. The scientist seemed to have manipulated the structure of the serum to make it nearly undetectable until it was active from what I have gathered.”

“So you’re saying that this is probably inactive in my body?”

“That’s the only plausible conclusion. Yes.”

Those words didn’t help the anticipation I was feeling, but it did settle some of the uneasy tension. If Sherlock didn’t find anything, then that means that nothing was currently happening. Right now, there was nothing to say and nothing to be worried about. Out of sight and therefore out of mind.

“Then, I suppose we don’t worry about it, yeah?”

Sherlock stared at me for a long moment. I wasn’t meeting his eyes and refused to see what would be there if anything was going to be there. 

All this week he had acted completely different compared to his usual antics. Staring at me as if I was supposed to get something. Pointless little touches or questions pertaining to my health. A few times I swear I caught him actually trying to appear _pleasant_ which was a tad frightening. It was like having one of those stone statues staring ominously at you in hopes to relay a message, or maybe even a weeping angel in Doctor Who.

I was used to annoying Sherlock. The Sherlock that complained to me on the operating table and refused any sedatives. The Sherlock that made me join him on a case almost immediately after I met him at our new flat. _That_ Sherlock I knew like the back of my hand.

This… was different. I was a little worried if he was getting sick. God only knows how often he ate or slept in the past week alone, not to mention _ever_.

I kept avoiding his prodding stare until the moment Lestrade came unceremoniously through the doors without a knock or greeting to mark his entrance. A case file were cradled in his hands with worse handwriting than my own when I’m supposed to be printing my name legibly.

At the same time, I gave up on my drawing, deciding it wasn’t nearly as good as before. Ripping the paper, I tossed it into the waste bin and turned to stare at the breathless inspector and not at the disconcerted man next to me.

I mean, I was already having issues telling people that the two of us were _not_ a romantic relationship. We were purely _friendship_ in our soul mating. Apparently, that was harder to believe than the fact that Sherlock actually had pleasant moments upon occasion.

But it seemed that Lestrade didn’t necessarily see or care for he completely ignored the borderline amiable stare Sherlock had.

“Hello, Detective Inspector Lestrade,” I greeted in hopes that Sherlock would look away – and that he gratefully did. Eyes glittering like a child on Christmas morning with hopes of getting the one gift he always asks for, his thoughts almost did an entire one-eighty. It was so… Sherlock that all I could do was roll my eyes.

“John,” the inspector nodded in my direction before returning to his professional posture. “Sherlock. I have a case.”

“Well, obviously.” Sherlock shook his head in disbelief as he chided the inspector and I could see the inspector’s smile fight to surface under the serious façade he created. “I hope it’s worth it. Since you didn’t text me the details, I assume it is either off the record or too perplexing to actually type out.”

“They are always worth it, Sherlock. Just not to you. Also, you are also right, annoyingly so. This case is to remain off the record until completion.” Lestrade took a deep breath before opening the file and reading off of it like so:

“Recently, there have been multiple cases that seem to roll back all the way to 1869 and have continued with each descendent of the beginning victim. The first was Elias Openshaw who was recorded to receive a letter with five orange pips enclosed within it. Not soon after he was found dead in a garden pool. The next was Joseph Openshaw who also receives the very same letter and then dies as well, in a chalk-pit. As you can see, this case has been going on for one and a half centuries. For fifty of those years, the murders went mute, for reasons unexplained.”

Sherlock looked intrigued. He looked so in-depth that he could barely contain the bouncing of his fingers across his knee. I leaned back against the couch as I watched his anticipation roll off in thick waves. I knew most of it went with the order of the case and the incredulity of it all, but I also knew that Sherlock thought it was one of Moriarty’s cases. It was hard to deny or agree with the assumption. 

At this point, I was trying to keep from being anxious myself. The stupid detective was practically infectious.

“And I presume they have started again? This is a lot of research, Lestrade. Even for you or the Yard.”

“Exactly. Back then it was dubbed the “Five Orange Pip Murder.”” I glanced up and rose my brow inquiring at the detective. 

“The Five Orange Pip Murder?” It was an incredibly ridiculous name for an equally ridiculous case but still.

Lestrade nodded grimly. “It’s not as amusing as it may seem, doctor. Actually, considering the ridiculousness…”

“Ridiculous for the yard you mean,” Sherlock interjected.

“…I cannot breach this to the board. However, I recommended this young man to see you, Sherlock.” Lestrade closed the file and handed it to Sherlock. Almost immediately, the detective began to go through the files, scanning them as quickly as he flipped the pages. “Will you have him?”

“Depends on what kind of case he brings.”

Lestrade let out a sigh before moving aside. Behind him was an antsy young man who seemed to look at every nook and cranny like eying a potentially lunging lion. Even at his young age, gray hairs were beginning to peak through from the pure stress of whatever case he planned to tell us today. Hands increasingly shaky at his sides and continuously rocking back and forth on his heels, he was the image of paranoid. He was like prey outrunning the predator and certain it was impossible.

“I think I’ll hear the man, inspector. You can leave.” Sherlock peered curiously at the young man as I had although I was pretty sure he saw more than I could have ever predicted. Little things like what he had for brunch or what his father did for a living. A part of me was absolutely flabbergasted with this idea that he claimed to be “obvious deduction”. The other was fascination, as annoying as that was considering what a complete prat the man was.

Standing with only a few aches and pains protesting my movement, I dragged the consulting stool from beside my arm chair and placed it directly in front of Sherlock before sitting beside the detective.

Now it was time for the judicially-unaware Sherlock Holmes to either accept or refuse the client. I myself would have taken it regardless of the simplicities, although I was partial to danger and adrenaline when taking my military junkie lifestyle prior to this. Still, listening to the clients weren’t always interesting and often held a dull “help me figure out if my wife is cheating on me” or “figure out why my grandfather’s investments went to this stranger and not me” note to it.

A few times I did attempt to walk away or do something else while he listened to a client, but I realized too quickly afterward that if I didn’t understand what he was talking about it made him _especially_ childish. Repeating how I didn’t listen to the case because making tea was _obviously_ more important or even mimicking my responses or questions and not even bothering answering them.

In the long run, it really wasn’t worth it so I remained by his side dutifully and curiously.

The man didn’t move from his spot in front of the door, even when the inspector closed it upon his leaving. Sherlock didn’t seem particularly hasty to assure the man it was okay to sit down without being murdered, so I took to the common courtesy of niceties.

“You can just sit there unless you prefer to stand, whichever works to your liking.” The man nodded numbly before sitting on the small stool with his hands on his lap. God it made this feel a lot more like scolding a bloody child than taking a case.

“The case,” Sherlock prompted and the man physically _jumped_ in his seat as if he forgot about us.

“Right,” he cleared his throat thickly. “Right. My name is John Openshaw. You heard most of my predicament from the inspector so what is there left to say?”

Sherlock’s rolled his eyes. “The Yard’s version of your case is the condensed story without the gory details I assure you. Since I am a detective, I don’t need a version with facts stripped aside that were deemed unworthy and useless. That is for me to decide alone and not some atrocious law enforcement agency.”

Blinking, the man nodded again. “Okay. A while back, as in 1869, my ancestor Elias Openshaw came back from his time in the United States. In the States, he was a planter in Florida and served as a Colonel in the Confederate Army due to his beliefs that the coloured iridescence didn’t deserve as much rights as the white iridescence. It didn’t matter if a white person’s soul mate was coloured, he didn’t approve of it. Additionally, he also was a strict believer in accepting the motives of the Saturation Sorority and the Faded Resistance, as much of the South believed in compared to the North’s default of denying the compromised divisions.

“Little was known what actually happened to him and when he returned to England, he settled in Horsham, West Sussex and never spoke of his time. Every time he was prodded for it, he would ignore it or simply say “it was in the past”. He was a very reclusive man with the only company being the nephew, my great-great grandfather. His uncle would never let him enter one specific room containing locked chests pertaining to his time in the States. Considering his mate was found in the states and died there prior to his returning, my grandfather always assumed it was because of his Discoloured nature.

“Time passed by with little to no occurrences until one day when Elias Openshaw received a letter postmarked Pondicherry in India that arrived for him. It was inscribed with “KKK” and only contained five orange pips.” The younger Openshaw’s voice wavered at the mention of the letter but he cleared his throat and continued. “The letter sent Elias into a frenzy and night after night the smell of burnt paper came from the locked room. A will was even written which was almost as odd as the sudden taking to a drink or shouting forth in a drunken sally with a pistol in his hand. It was almost as if he was _expecting_ death.”

“And did he die?” Sherlock asked apathetically to which Mr. Openshaw nodded solemnly.

“Yes. Two months later he was found dead in a garden pool. My great-great father returned to his father, Joseph Openshaw, and, albeit mourning and upset about the sudden decease, went on a good year and a half without any occurrence. On January 4, 1885, Joseph received the very same type of letter except from Dundee. Inside were instructions to leave “the papers” on the sundial. Knowing the letter, my great-great grandfather attempted to urge his father to call the police to no avail.”

Mr. Openshaw licked his lips as a shuddering breath wracked through his body. “Three days later Joseph was found dead in a chalk-pit. He was also Discoloured like Elias so most of the Yard assumed it may have been suicide and not murder as his son thought. As for my great-great grandfather, he remained hidden and as reclusive as his uncle and thus the weird murders stopped.”

The man shrugged as Sherlock eyed him with a curious brow. “Basically,” he began. “My great-great grandfather assumed that if he remained hidden and associated with society at the minimum, he would not die by the “KKK” and would never receive the letter with the five orange pips.”

Sherlock hummed to himself as he mulled over the information. I myself was still reeling in the incredulity of these cases. “I would assume that they have started again if you have come to me, yes?”

“I hear you are the best,” Openshaw agreed.

“Don’t feed his ego or I would never hear the end of it,” I muttered under my breath in which Sherlock sent a glare at my direction. 

“It purely depends on the evidence given in accordance to my skills, Mr. Openshaw,” Sherlock replied smoothly with a cool smile in the direction of the client. “Speaking of which, do you have any clues that could help the case you present?”

“Ah, yes.” Openshaw reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a stale piece of parchment. It seemed to have been taken well care of considering the still legible handwriting. “This was a page from Elias’s diary marked 1869. According to what I can assess, it says that orange pips have been sent to three men, two of which fled and the third having been visited.”

Taking the piece of paper out of the quivering man’s fingertips, Sherlock barely glanced over it before nodding and handing it back. “I’ll take your case. Despite the time that has passed, I assume that they will have record of all the letters they have sent. Therefore, I advise that you leave the diary page with a note telling of the destruction of the Colonel’s papers on a garden sundial, preferably at the house that he lived at if not the house that I assumed you inherited from your great-great grandfather.”

John Openshaw hesitated as he took in Sherlock’s advice and I could vaguely understand why. If he was planning to be killed by the same band of killers from nearly a century and a decade ago, it wasn’t hard to believe the hesitance of potential death was heart-stopping. He was already paranoid enough as it were.

But then he nodded and left with only the barest tremor on the doorknob marking his fear.

Sherlock hummed to himself and leaned back. Raising a brow, I turned to face the space-y detective.

“Sherlock?”

“It’s absolutely enthralling how a group from the 17th century can last this long,” he mused to himself before continuing a tad louder. “The KKK is the Ku Klux Klan I’m sure you realized. At the time, it was anti-Reconstruction as well as anti any rights regarding coloured individuals, whether Iridescence or otherwise. They based their stature and motives on the Saturation Sorority mostly from what I have gathered. A hierarchy sort of government in the South.”

I knew of the Ku Klux Klan but I knew telling Sherlock that wouldn’t stop him from thinking his thoughts out loud. “Yes, but didn’t it disband in March 1869?”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” he sent a small smile in my direction. “It’s safe to believe this may have been due to the Colonel maliciously taking their papers away to England. It may have been a manifesto for their group and without it they had nothing to go by.”

A sigh escaped the detective’s lips as a smirk lay heavy to replace the apathetic expression from earlier. “This case. It’s one of Moriarty’s. It has to be.”

I stared at the detective in disbelief. Of all things to be thinking of, he’s still mulling over the blasted criminal like an interesting toy. Not of the case in general but of who was running it. This wasn’t like Sherlock to immediately jump to the criminal in accusations that were probably well-founded.

“Sherlock,” I began as I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You shouldn’t be thinking of him but of the case alone. This man is practically the next kill if we don’t save him.”

Before Sherlock could open his mouth, I continued on. “There is a _life_ at stake, Sherlock. Actual _human_ life – Just, just so I know, _do you care about that at all?_ ”

The cold gray eyes that have burned blue into my mind swerved to meet my own. It was hard to find anything in those orbs. They say the eyes are like a window to the soul but if that’s the case Sherlock may as well not have one.

“Will caring about them help save them?” he questioned slowly and I shook my head. “Then I’ll continue not to make that mistake. Save him, John? I don’t take cases to save people. I take cases to cure my boredom and alleviate any sense of satisfaction in my abilities. What personal value comes to the client is not a part of my worries as a detective.”

“And you find that easy, do you?” I laughed aloud, but it even sounded false to my ears. “Ah. Right. You’re a machine.” 

“Right,” he responded softly. “I am a machine. Is that news to you?”

Standing up, I dusted off my trousers and fetched my jumper. “No. No.”

It took a long moment before Sherlock even responded to that. In all actuality, I was very surprised that he bothered to at all. “…I’ve disappointed you.”

Fetching my mobile, I turned around to face the perplexed detective. Sarcastically, I sneered back. “That’s good. That’s a good deduction, yeah.”

Sherlock stared at me with the oddest expression before closing off his face and looking away. “Don’t make people into heroes, John. Heroes don’t exist, and if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.”

I scoffed and shook my head and opened my mouth to argue but instead something different came out. “You know what? No. I’m going out. If you need me, text and I’ll see if I’m _heroic enough_ to save you from your distress call regarding your boredom.”

My feet were two steps out the door when I heard a “John” chase after me.

The soles of my shoes turned on their own but Sherlock wasn’t staring at me. He was staring at the skull on his mantle or perhaps the Cluedo board pinned to the wall. I wasn’t sure and I didn’t care.

“Don’t forget the milk.”

If my glare had any sort of power or force, Sherlock would be either pinned to a wall of a pile of ash on the floor. 

“I won’t,” I bit back before slamming the door.

And that’s how I found myself a half-hour later at the closest pub with Mary at my side, rubbing my back as I cradled a shot between my fingers I had yet to down. It wasn’t because the alcohol wasn’t good but the situation entirely. 

Primarily, I did _not_ want to become a drunk like most of my family. Secondly, I didn’t need to get drunk nor did I even want to. I honestly didn’t even know why I had this shot in my hands in the first place.

“I don’t know, Mary. I really don’t.”

Mary rose an inquisitive brow and took a sip of her water. She didn’t normally drink and apparently she thought I would need a designated driver with how I appeared when she saw me. Definitely not the “Knight in Shining Armor” sort of look I hoped to have. “You don’t know what, John? The soul mate? The flat? The murders?”

I shrugged and then let out an angry sigh. “I just… don’t know. He’s a brilliant man. He’s so extraordinary that I hate him for being as intellectual as he is. It’s like he’s a drug. Morphine or dilaudid perhaps. He’s addicting and possibly bad for me, but I can’t seem to get off. It’s ridiculous. He is the most stupidly brilliant man I have ever met.”

“Not as ridiculous as the fact that you seem to trust him with your hormonal teenager life,” Mary replied nonchalantly before continuing. “So it is the detective that you are going on about. Well, seeing as he didn’t physically harm you, I truly have no need to go and kick his arse. I’m all ears for you though, John.”

“First of all,” I began. “Yes, it is about Sherlock. Second, I don’t need you to kick anybody’s arse for me. I’m a fucking _captain_ from the _army_. I can do whatever the hell I want and make it look good at the very _least_.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she dismissed. “It’s the alcohol talking. You know that you’re really a teddy bear that’s as menacing as the fluff inside.”

“I haven’t even had my first drink!” I protested before adding seriously. “And I can always suffocate someone. A stuffed bear is almost as efficient as a pillow.”

“Just drink your shot, John, before it gets warm.”

Knocking the shot back, I watched as Mary ordered another one and placed it in front of me.

“You need this.”

I shook my head and pushed it away. “No, I really don’t need any more than that one. I need to be on my feet for the case.”

Mary feigned surprise and let out an obnoxiously loud gasp that made me question if I should glare at her or play along. “Oh? Look at this! John Watson refusing a drink, and from a _woman_ at that. Perhaps this Sherlock is a good influence on you after all!” She snickered and nudged me when I pointedly ignored her. “I think I could learn to love this fellow, John. He has my very important seal of approval.”

Rolling my eyes, I concluded that I couldn’t remain angry at her. It was practically impossible. She was too happy and bubbly and _supportive_. Hating or disliking Mary Morstan was like hating rainbows if that was possible.

Actually, I wondered if Sherlock hated rainbows. I already knew his unfounded ignorance to the solar system (Primary stuff!), but what did he feel about common weather phenomena? Knowing Sherlock, he probably _did_ hate them. 

The thought of Sherlock sent another wave of anger through my spine. Bitter emotions that tasted of metal and frustration for someone who didn’t understand them. Stupid people. Stupid, brilliant detectives and their lack of understanding emotions! Or even the pure value of life 

However, I didn’t want to rant Mary’s ear off about him. I’m sure she was already tired of him considering how many times I have visited the hospital or needed her aid since he and I joined in cahoots. 

Instead, I decided to ask one of the main questions that plagued my mind since Sherlock’s strange change. “What did you tell him anyways? At the hospital? He won’t tell me a damn thing and has been acting differently since.”

“Patient confidentiality, John,” Mary wagged her finger as she chided, taking the drink I denied and downing it in a go. I could see a pleased little smile waver on her lips and my suspicions were concerned.

“You told him something.”

“Well, _obviously_ ,” she remarked, exasperated. “That’s what people do when they ask to talk to someone. They talk. Chat. Converse. Come on, John.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”

Pushing the shot glass away, she immediately took a swig from her water. “And what if I did talk to him? It’s all confidential and I cannot reveal confidential information.”

“He wasn’t your patient,” I reminded her and she shrugged.

“Yes, but you are, and I’m keeping information confidential from the patient.” She stubbornly tilted her head up as I stared in disbelief.

“That’s not how it works!” 

“Too bad!” she remarked with a smug grin.

Sighing, I smiled at her and pushed her aside playfully. “Why couldn’t you have been my mate? It would have been great. I would have been happy with you. I know I would have been.” Mary let out a soft sigh and then caught herself. I could feel her gaze swerve to stare at me questioningly.

“Are you saying you’re not happy with him?”

“What?” I blinked and thought back to what I said before shaking my head. I suppose I did sound like I wasn’t happy but still. “No. No, not at all. It’s just…”

I couldn’t find the words. They just left me. I wasn’t _unhappy_ with Sherlock. God no. I was probably happier than I have been in a long time. Granted I have dealt with my fair share of idiotic moments as well as euphoric, I still didn’t exactly hate being around Sherlock. I’ve been annoyed at him. I’ve despised him a few times even. But I have never gone as far as to say I was unhappy.

“I know what you mean, John.” Mary smiled at me fondly like I was an adorable puppy that she wanted to take in. “You’re adorable when you’re speechless by the way.”

“I am _not_ adorable. Adorable are kittens or perhaps hedgehogs. Maybe either or in a jumper. Not me.”

Plucking a piece of my jumper, she stretched it in the hook of her finger and then let it go. “And what do we have here? A hedgehog in a jumper. It seems that you characterized yourself without knowing it.”

“Why am I a hedgehog?”

Mary tilted her head as if confused before sighing. “They are exotic creatures for one. That means they are wild and still a little untamed and your adrenaline antics is _definitely_ related to this. Secondly, it takes them a long time to fully trust a person and you cannot deny the fact that you don’t trust people, John. If you hadn’t known me for as long as you have, I doubt we would be as comfortable as we are now. I’m sure you wouldn’t talk to Sarah like you do with me.” Tapping a manicured finger against the wooden counters, she continued. “I’m sure there is more, but mostly you are a solitary person. I remember when you said you never wanted to mate and you were fine with that. Hedgehogs are, for your information, very solitary creatures.”

Completely proud of herself, Mary nodded her head firmly with a broad grin on her lips. “So, yes. You are a hedgehog. In a jumper. And therefore adorable.”

I felt my eye twitch as I looked away from her in what was definitely not denial. She snickered beside me and watched the football game on the telly as I ignored her.

Pushing the empty shot glass from hand to hand, fingers barely touching it as it shuffled to and fro, I glanced out the window at the night. Seeing as it was only a Tuesday, there was no foot traffic at all. The only comfort was the streetlights that gleamed off the musty sidewalks in a warm grey. 

I was about to peer back at Mary who was going on and on about something Sarah did when I spotted someone stumbling through the streets. Normally, I might have stared at them questioningly, but upon closer inspection I realized it was Mr. Openshaw. The same man who was supposed to be on the tube home. 

He definitely was not where he was supposed to be. Instead, he appeared clammy and pale. He kept looking over his shoulder and around him frantically as if something, or someone, was following him. 

“Hey, I’m going to head out.” Standing up, I began to leave the counters when Mary’s slim fingers wrapped around my wrist. 

“John?”

Smiling at her with as much reassurance as I could muster, I prodded off her fingers. “I’ll be back. Promise.” I let out a breath as she eyed me suspiciously. “If not, I need you here to phone Sherlock.” I pressed my mobile into her hand and began to walk away with haste in case I lost the man.

“Where are you –“ Mary began but I shook my head.

“I can’t, Mary. Half an hour. Give me that much.”

Without a second thought of the risks I was taking, I ran out to follow the potential victim with a vain, soldier hope of saving him from the threat that pursued him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the late update. Because of this I may not get the next chapter up until Thursday since it will be my only day off this week. All this week, since school starts again, its school/work/sleep and repeat until Thursday. I hope the lengthy chapter makes up for it?


	21. Shade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a soldier, we kind of do reckless things. Okay, maybe reckless was a little too broad. Maybe a tad precarious with a dash of adrenaline fit this criteria better, hm? Whatever it was, we did incredibly stupid things. Things like chasing bratty detectives. Things like tempting the fate of a mother hen nurse. Things like running around in the middle of the night when I have been injected with a mysterious substance along with all the other injuries I have decided to ignore within a short time span. My still limping knee and 70% active shoulder included.

Paint It Black   
Chapter 21  
JOHN POV

As a soldier, we kind of do reckless things. Okay, maybe reckless was a _little_ too broad. Maybe a tad precarious with a dash of adrenaline fit this criterion better, hm? Whatever it was, we did incredibly stupid things. Things like chasing bratty detectives. Things like tempting the fate of a mother hen nurse. Things like running around in the middle of the night when I have been injected with a mysterious substance along with all the other injuries I have decided to ignore within a short time span. My still limping knee and 70% active shoulder included.

But I had a feeling that I needed to do this. Consequences be damned. This man appeared to be running from death himself with how frantic he was. I had been chasing him for a while now and I have noticed all the symptoms of borderline hysteria. Laughter followed his wavering stride, but it wasn’t the type of laughter that you wanted to hear. God, it was absolutely mad. The type of madness that had small bits of despair mixed in one deranged concoction. 

He couldn’t even walk straight; however, with the wobbling of his steps did it really count as walking or some stupefied gait? His feet clattered in puddles and concrete and slapped shakily when he stumbled against the curb every so often. A few times I saw him swipe at his face and I could only presume he was crying. The way he waltzed drunkenly in his desperate haze, I could only presume what he came to Sherlock and me for was not waiting for what the detective instructed. Whatever happened from the time he left the flat to now was still a mystery, but I didn’t necessarily care about that at this particular moment.

Sherlock would, admittedly, be best in this situation. Give the man a tie and he could deduce what you had for breakfast and what type of nicotine you inhaled. Right now, where spurts of pain and “emotional attachment” (as Sherlock called it) blinded me consistently, he was needed. A clear head. A rational mind to see everything in those finely tuned glasses of his.  
But I couldn’t just flee and retrieve the detective.

The reason for that was because I had a feeling, as stated before, that he would be dead if I left to fetch the “machine” detective. A soldier wouldn’t leave this man. A captain wouldn’t leave this man. I sure as hell wasn’t going to let that happen either for I was a combination of those two.

In a way, Sherlock and I were responsible! Throwing him out to the wolves that seemed to be determined to end him and not only that. No, we had to place a bloody target on his back! I was pretty damn positive that seeing Sherlock and I only made their actions hastier than before. Everyone knew about Sherlock and I doubted they were an exception. 

I had as much responsibility to Mr. Openshaw’s safety and life as Sherlock reluctantly agreed to.

I suppose Sherlock’s receding response wasn’t that unexpected. I should have seen it coming. I had lived and experienced more of him in the past two weeks alone to point in this direction. He didn’t hold any personal attachments to people. He was a man of his work.

My anger, in that sense, was regrettably unfounded.

Shaking my head, I panted for a moment before racing down the street again. I had kept clear of any puddles in the streets as well as wrappers that could relay my placement. God only knew how much my knee was protesting my movement. I didn’t even think I could shoot (mostly because I didn’t think to bring my gun like a bloody fool) with my shoulder aching as it were.

I was stupid and incredibly rash in the eyes of any witnesses. Mary will probably have me bounded to an institution for a week because of this, telling the nurse that her poor friend had followed an insane bloke to perform “perilous twenty-something-year-old escapades in order to relive his youth.” I could see the straight jacket now.

Focus, John.

This was a mission. A mission was to be treated as exposed and hazardous. It required the utmost attention and nothing short of full versatility. Personal issues would cause an error. Personal thoughts will lead to missed details. Stop thinking like a greenie and concentrate on the operation at hand.

My eyes closed briefly, but when they opened the potential thoughts of the consequences were in the recesses of my mind. All I saw was the man in front of me, swaying in the direction of his plastered footsteps. Sherlock and his skills wanted to come forth, but I forced them back – with dusty effort. 

Something was wrong – and if not _wrong_ , then there was a certain oddity for sure. The quick reflex of action, the immediate result, the hasty execution. It was all placed on haste.

But why would the Ku Klux Klan need to be hasty?

There was definitely something suspiciously off about all of this. The Ku Klux Klan becoming involved in something that was a dilemma in the past and certainly not the case now. Why would they go after a man when their papers _obviously_ would not affect them now? Their group disbanded. The South, as most of the world recounts, lost in the Civil War. Freedom and all the civil rights reigned with history.

It was clear as day and yet blind as darkness, if I were to allow some poetic speech to become a part of my confusion.

Perhaps this wasn’t the Ku Klux Klan at all, but an organization that ran the group in the background. What did Sherlock say earlier? The Faded Resistance _and_ the Saturation Sorority were both inspirations for the group, both of which were still active today, and both of which I have encountered recently.

There was no possible reason for it to be the KKK at all and it wasn’t. It was their sponsors that wanted none of this to be brought up to the light. The Faded Resistance would be under more stress with the Army’s renewed vigor and the Saturation Sorority might also be under strain.

And this man, poor Mr. Openshaw, was the center of it. 

I didn’t envy his utter misfortune, however, that did not mean I wished to abandon him in hopes of not getting involved. 

Several times my mouth opened in hopes of calling out to the man. While before I refused to make any noise, I was hopeful that he would recognize my voice from what little I did speak and not scurry away. It wouldn’t take much. I was certainly winded, more so since I was more out of shape than I’d like to admit, but shouting shouldn’t be too much of a stretch.

If he didn’t recognize my voice, however, he would run without a doubt and _faster_ at that. If he proceeded to increase his speed I would surely lose him.

I bit my tongue as the first syllable began to form. It wasn’t worth the risk. I already presumed he was hysteric. The odds of him distinguishing my voice depended on him entirely and I wasn’t sure I wanted that variable. Scoffing quietly at the double-edged decision I was facing, I decided that silence would be best. It was neutral and produced the least dramatic results. Granted it limited my actions to actually help him, keeping an eye on him was a top priority.

Cobblestone slapped against the loafers I foolishly didn’t change out of earlier. My entire foot ached continuously as the abuse didn’t lessen with my chase. 

This was ridiculous. I really should get into shape and perhaps take a jog in the morning because if my superiors saw this now, they would shake their heads in dismay. My God. Panting with arrhythmical breaths and legs screaming to stop? It wasn’t nearly as painful as it was humiliating!

I blinked away the thoughts. Personal thoughts. Errors. Get that in your head.

Focus.

The lanterns above the upcoming bridge lit up the stone as the river Thames began to come into view. The reflection of the cloudless sky and the bright moon fell over the breathless water. Sadly, I couldn’t take in the view to the full potential it deserved for Mr. Openshaw seemed to falter in his step at the middle of – what I would assume – Kew Bridge.

I didn’t know what he was looking at but whatever he saw was something awful. If anybody were to come and find him, they would have only assumed he was paranoid or atrociously fearful at the marsh that patched the small coast along the river. 

Crouching behind the nearest tree, I peered around to continue watching over the man. As my movements became idle, small thoughts filtered in listlessly. 

There really was no point in going back now! For one, Sherlock would be very disappointed that I didn’t make the “right” decision. Secondly, it had been more than 30 minutes and thus Mary probably already called Sherlock. This would point to the first reason if he found me returning.

Lastly, this was the climax of the chase and I was _not_ going to leave this like this! I was as much curious of this case and the reason for this man’s fear as Sherlock was.

Wails of despair cracked through the air and I blinked back to the distraught man on the bridge. Damn it. This was what I get for not focusing. I missed the entire introduction, and in most scenarios that was the most important part.

Mr. Openshaw was shaking horrendously from where he stood and his hands shook none too gently. Each hitch of breath could be heard in the quiet night with nothing more than the birds and bees to disturb. Even from where I was, I could see the hysterical panic attack that was beginning to prosper.

The next few words he spoke set a heavy weight in my stomach. Guilt, I soon realized, was this weight. The reason, I soon recalled later, was because I didn’t do anything but watch as it happened.

“I don’t want to die. I don’t,” he hiccupped and rubbed half his face with shaky hands. The tie around his neck was tugged loose and limply fell to the cobblestone. His sports jacket was wrinkled and mussed, almost slipping off him entirely. The hair on his head was disheveled and the poor lighting reflected a flushed face. “I didn’t mean to. I don’t want to die.”

Nothing seemed to add up as I watched the display. Absolutely nothing made any sense as to what happened from the moment he shakily left the flat until the very moment he stumbled in a fearful haze.

Did he run into the perpetrators? Did he happen across them? Is he running from them?

I was just about ready to fetch the man and lead him to the nearest tube when five men in white suits with matching white-painted skin marched up. Their faces were solemn yet apprehensive. I recognized their expressions with concern. They knew why they were there and were not against any of the actions they had to exhume. 

The moonlight sky shined on their silver badges that upheld the long-dead group “KKK”.

As if their name wasn’t enough to send waves of shivers through your spine, the way they acted was eerie. They didn’t speak nor did they make any notion that they even understood what Mr. Openshaw was saying. Instead, they silently pondered the quivering man. A few of them nodded ever so slightly – or so I thought they did – and the tallest one – the leader I assumed – barely opened his mouth only to close it again. 

I didn’t know what any of these notions meant. I wasn’t like the detective. These little movements seemed minuscule and pointless, but I made note of them for Sherlock.

The men took a collective breath and then released it gently. Even where I was crouched I could see each and everything they did. Either they aimed for a dramatic flair or they didn’t necessarily know that their movements were so largely recognized.   
Step by step they advanced Mr. Openshaw until the shaking man’s back was bent awkwardly over the edge of the bridge. The light of the lamps presented the abject fear he felt and I could feel my lips curl into a grimace of anger. 

But I was far too late. Always too late.

By the time I managed to get up from my crouched position to rush the clan, they pushed Mr. Openshaw over the edge. His screams resounded through the desolate streets before being silenced by the murky waters.

“Hey!” I all but screamed at the group. They turned swiftly to look at me, white blinding my vision briefly before they fled down the bridge and into the shadows.

I would have gone after them. I wanted to go after them. Every bone in my body was screaming to go after them and to capture them. 

However, I thought of Mr. Openshaw, who was pushed over the bridge just five seconds ago and may or may not be in the process of drowning. He needed to be saved. 

Looking back and forth from each path I could take, I was once again battling morality and curiosity. Of course the good part in me would smack me upside the head with an “are you a bloody idiot?”

Mr. Openshaw needed to be rescued before he drowned. He was the sole witness and would give more information if he were alive. Capturing the KKK, or even one individual of their clan, was a slim chance. The probability of having Mr. Openshaw come out alive were greater than that even.

I knew, regrettably, what I had to do.

A few course swears were muttered on my lips as I quickly dove over the bridge after the possibly unconscious man.

The dark water hit my skin like ice and it took all my will not to gasp at the pain that ruptured most of my wounds from a week ago. My shoulder throbbed painfully and I swear some of the stitches were pulled. The cut along my neck ripped painfully from the way my neck snapped as the water slapped my body.

Pain erupted in thick pulses, but I ignored it in favor of searching for Mr. Openshaw.

This in itself may have been called impossible for, as it happened to be, it was a dark night and while the moon shone brightly, it didn’t help my blind searching. I knew opening my eyes would have been stupid, especially with the darkness, so all the work and faith was placed upon my hands that were double tasking between swimming and searching. 

But time after time all that met them was only more water or the occasional fish or weed. My lungs were burning from the breath I still held and the pain, while numbed from the chilling waters, were only being replaced with lead and metal. 

The kicking began to match that of a feeble animal begging for survival and I suspected this was from the impact tweaking my knee more than anything. My mind berated me for being utterly reckless, but it was too late to really regret it. I mean, if I had actually thought about it before jumping in, I suppose taking off my jumper and sweater as well as these soaked loafers to make this easier. 

But I hadn’t thought it through. I immediately jumped in to save this man who may or may not already be dead.

Fingers tried to heighten their senses as my searching went from thorough to desperate. I hated acting desperate. I hated being desperate. It causes errors in everything I did. I didn’t need Sherlock to assure me of that.

Occasionally, there were those few times where desperation was the key.

Feeling a brush of fabric under my fingers, I clutched on to the sports jacket and kicked up to the top. My lungs were about to force me to breathe in, whether it was water or air when we finally burst through the surface.

It took every ounce of remaining energy to push the man to shore and even then I had to crawl to reach him.

I slapped his shoulders. “Hey. Hey, mate. You okay? Come on…” I placed two fingers against his carotid artery while my other hand drifted to his radial pulse. Both came back negative and both hands immediately clasped over his chest to begin the classic tutorials of CPR. 

My compressions were weak at first. I was tired. I was sore. I was pretty sure I was bleeding in several places that Mary would kill me for later. I was positive of a lot of things, but none of them bothered me nearly as much as the certainty that this man may soon die if he wasn’t dead already.

Taking a deep breath, I tilted his chin up and forced air into his lungs. The action in itself caused me to briefly black out and become faint. This wasn’t good. I needed to save him but how was killing myself in the process helping that?

But it was too late to go fetch someone. He needed aid _now_ and, well, I was here _now_.

Doubts flitted my mind on my health when I thought I was hallucinating Sherlock’s voice calling my name.

Impossible. He shouldn’t have known where I was heading.  
The immoral urge to laugh obnoxiously and hysterically filled me intensely at that moment that it neared madness.

Impossible? Nothing was impossible when it came to Sherlock Holmes. He could deduct anything he very well may please. He probably knew all about the Ku Klux Klan and their destination before I did!

Before the bubble of laughter could live to its merit, a second and third pair of hands begin to pull me away.

“No,” I struggled against the hands as one pair left. A second later, Mary rested next to Mr. Openshaw and continued my feverish CPR.

But I was positive she would kill him. For some reason, I thought that I had to be there to save him. I was the only one who could save him. Only myself. It was why I kept struggling. It was why I ignored all the voiced remarks of my childish antics. It was why I was trying to insist every army tactic I had to energy for, which was basically none.

I was out of energy. It was obvious. That would explain why I was incredibly sore and more than a little injured with the extreme effort I placed myself in. It was explainable in a doctor’s medical opinion.

The burning sensation bubbling just beneath my skin, however, was far from probable or even possible for that matter.

The feeling was emanating from Sherlock’s fingers and I found myself fighting his grip even harder than before. I wanted to eradicate this feeling. I wanted it to _stop_.

“Stop it,” I gasped and jerked my hand, but Sherlock’s grip was made of iron and refused to budge. “You can’t… He is… Sherlock, it hurts.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as I stared at him. I was trying to converse with him, plead with my eyes to let me go because this wasn’t helping him nor myself.

“What hurts? Did you hurt yourself?” He asked in a concerned voice one could place as possible affection or worry. I wanted to laugh at the thought of such actions, but it really wouldn’t have been that weird when I thought of how he was acting for the past few weeks.

Affectionate was awkward and different, but it wasn’t something entirely new for the detective. At least, for myself it wasn’t new.

“No,” I denied profusely, shaking my head. “No that’s not what hurts.”

No, what hurt was the absolute simmering under my skin. Lava was flowing in my veins thickly and perhaps severed and seared the nerves as it went. If I looked at my arm, I was almost positive in my irrational mind that I would find little flames dancing across in thick ribbons outlining my veins, arteries, and capillaries.

The pain was almost unbearable. Almost was the only word that separated the feeling of spontaneous combustion to the rash urge to amputate a limb. All I wished to do was for Sherlock to let go of me so I could help the young man, but it seemed that such wishes were going to be denied and I was going to ultimately suffer for it in the heat of some impossible reaction.

But Sherlock didn’t know he was hurting me. He thought that I was the one who had injured myself in my “reckless escapade” to chase our client. As far as he knew, he was keeping me from injuring myself or throwing myself off another bloody bridge in hopes to rescue another potentially drowning man from death and the murky waters.

“You are hurting me, Sherlock. Let go. Let me go.” 

The reaction was instantaneous and had I not been perhaps in a mixture of irrational, adrenaline- rushed anxiety, I perhaps would have felt guilty for the pain I caused him. 

However, I was far from anything concerning lucidity and a heavy sigh of relief fled my lips. I ignored the backlash across Sherlock’s face as well as the fact that color had never filtered as he held me down in place. Two important factors that I should have seen but didn’t.

Instead, heavy limbs dragged a stupid man over to a victim who was already in the process of being resuscitated by a greater doctor (or rather a nurse) than I. I was almost in arms reach of Mr. Openshaw when Mary must have heard my movements. I suppose when I looked back at this moment, it wasn’t impossible to see why since I was drenched, breathing raggedly, and slithering through mud that emphasized every movement no matter how slow and careful I perceived them to be.

“Sherlock,” she grounded out slowly, methodically, and even I knew that this voice was to be taken seriously and prioritized first. It was _the_ voice. The one that questioned stupidity and adolescent thoughts. To combine this with Sherlock almost had bubbles of laughter emanate from my throat itself! “I told you to keep him at bay. What part of that did you not understand?”

I couldn’t see Sherlock’s face, but I imagined it had a certain chilled and sculpted expression of a marble statue. Apathetic and yet silently judging all it could see. “When I attempted to restrain him, he complained of pain.”

Three deep breaths lifted and fell from Mary’s chest. That was another bad thing for the victim of her prosecution. Three breaths usually implied that she was three seconds from lashing out. 

However, I was not the victim of her lashings at this moment and took their bickering to my advantage as I continued to crawl forward. My fingers barely brushed Mr. Openshaw’s hair.

“Sherlock?” Mary spoke.

“Yes?”

Mary tilted Mr. Openshaw’s jaw upward and covered his nose as she filled his lungs with air. When she sat back up and began compressions once more, she continued what she was saying. “At this moment, John is another critical, irrational patient.”

“And that should mean to me what exactly?” He retorted sharply.

“That, for one, you are dimmer than I thought!” Mary struck just as quickly and just as sharply. Even I flinched at the tone of her voice. But she composed herself and continued, “It should mean that you are to restrain him no matter what the circumstances may be – unless he broke a bone which he did not. He is faint, probably suffering some degree of hypothermia alone with all his other bloody injuries, and right now, he is going to need body heat primarily.”

She leaned down and gave another breath. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he gets a cold after this. If you don’t wish him to get sick, which considering your profession and all I highly doubt that you would, then be of some use and warm him up.” Before Sherlock could utter a word she added, “And preferably from someone else that isn’t myself for I am far too busy reviving this man to keep him back. So, no, Sherlock you can’t back out of this.”

I suppose this was where my advantage ended. Between Sherlock’s cold remarks and Mary’s poisonous replies, my attention had been briefly diverted to make sure they didn’t tear each other’s throats out. I had forced my body to sit up, albeit slouched over heavily, with my hands retracted to keep me up. 

When Sherlock sighed, I flickered my gaze over to his gray eyes that my sub-consciousness always filled as “blue” or “ice” for that’s what they were when I could see them with color. 

He must have seen that I didn’t want to interact skin-to-skin contact. The way I was now sitting up with my arms poised to move away from any advancements made it that clear. Still, Sherlock stood and made his way slowly over to my form before crouching. 

By this time, I had slithered my gaze back to the man still being given CPR. At this rate, I suppose he wasn’t going to live. If he did, it was going to be a miracle. Still, Mary kept at it. This was probably because she knew I would take her place if she ceased.

I heard the soft hiss of shuddering cloth as something rustled beside my form. A second later, something heavy and quite warm was draped over my shoulders. When I glanced at the fabric and thumbed the cloth, I realized that it was Sherlock’s coat that had been given rather unceremoniously. 

Staring at Sherlock, I was certainly amazed. It was one of the few times, since my last kidnapping, that Sherlock had done something even remotely affectionate or even caring for that matter. 

But the specific detective didn’t reciprocate my stare and instead watched Mary’s hand placement with a scrutinized stare. For some, this would seem like he brushed me aside but I knew him more than he liked to have me know and smiled a bit – not like a school girl – at the unexpected gesture.

_Click._

That little minuscule click resounded like a bullet and I turned to glare at Sherlock as the handcuffs glinted in the moonlight.

“Are you kidding me?”

Sherlock didn’t meet my gaze at all as he replied. “I can’t touch you, John, but as Ms. Morstan says, I can’t let you out of my sight either.”

I narrowed my eyes, took a deep breath, and then let it out slowly as a question filtered through my thoughts.

“Do you always carry handcuffs around?”

He shrugged like that explained everything. “Only when it is necessary.”

I stared at him, a wandering thought floating in my head. _When are handcuffs necessary for him? I've never seen him chase a criminal in my entire stay as a flatmate!_

“And you find it necessary to cuff me to your hand.” 

Sherlock met my eyes for the briefest of moments before nodding. 

Sighing, I felt the fight leave me and I slumped into the spot I was sitting at next to Sherlock even further.

“I really despise you sometimes. I do. I hate you so much.”

“That’s what everyone says.”

I cursed myself when I heard the apathetic, chilled tone of Sherlock’s voice. He was receding. I knew that voice. I had heard that voice in spurts of arguments when I would walk out to the pub while he played his violin till 3 in the morning. It was the detachment voice to hide the emotions. I really probably should have thought my words better – or at the very least changed the tone of how I said it (what even was the tone? Vengeful? Annoyed? Similar to any other bloke who abhorred the detective).

Quirking my lips, I nudged his arm with my elbow as Mary leaned in for another breath. By now I was fine with her performing CPR on Mr. Openshaw. I had long come to terms that he would have definitely passed had I been the one to continue.

But I could still correct my misunderstanding with Sherlock. That could be fixed with my own words and actions.

“Well, do they say that you are equally brilliant and sometimes incredibly selfless that I have to second guess that I am with the same guy?”

A pause and Sherlock shook his head before murmuring something so soft that I would not have heard it if I had chosen to fight for resuscitating this man’s life in front of me.

“No. No, they don’t.”

If I had chosen to look at Sherlock at this moment, I would have seen a soft smile on his face – small enough that only I could have noticed it. 

But I was focused on something else entirely and missed it. I was only told this much later and this fact made the end much more painful in retrospect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah... I have never done one of these, but I have it planned what "the end" will be. Not to the story, oh no, but the end of the cases derived from Moriarty. I still have my fair share I want to write for this concept. I love it too much.
> 
> I really wanted a cliffhanger kind of thing, but I didn't want to make it a cliffhanger like my other ones. More like a dark cloud of doom actually. 
> 
> Also, sorry for the delayed update. Honestly? I just started the next chapter so it will be a longer wait for that one as well. I apologize for that dearly.
> 
> Hope you liked the read.


End file.
